Harry Potter and the Slightly Suggestive Handshake
by The Solitary Sandpiper
Summary: In order to increase 'the power the Dark Lord knows not,' Dumbledore gives baby Harry a powerful love potion. This bold move results in...unusual consequences. Witness Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, Boy-Who-Caught-the-Snitch-Two-Times, and Boy-Who-Conquered-Voldemort-But-Did-Not-Kill-Him at his very best...which is considerably less impressive than everyone expects. AU.
1. Slightly Suggestive Handshake (Prologue)

_Evening—Number Four, Privet Drive_

On the lawn sat a basket, and in the basket was a baby; the baby was named Harry Potter, and he was asleep.

Beside the basket stood a pair of boots, and in the boots there was a woman; the woman was named Minerva McGonagall, and she was awake.

The silence stretched, but neither Minerva nor the baby moved. They appeared to be watching, waiting. Waiting for—what? Dreams long forgotten? Lost friends? Old lovers? Or—

Murmurs hissed across the lawn. The air rippled like molten metal, and a human form appeared.

Albus Dumbledore was a tall wizard, with a beard that brushed his knees. He had an old, wrinkled face. A lopsided nose. Half moon glasses, behind which hid two blue eyes. The glasses reflected starlight.

Finally, he spoke. "How do you do, Minerva?" And then: "Would you like a lemon drop?"

Minerva McGonagall's face was severe when she replied. "No, thank you, Albus. I hardly think it is the time for sweets—"

"Ah! It is always time for sweets, is it not?" The wizard smiled. "But let us not rehash such an old argument now, Minerva. There are, as you wisely imply, things to be doing—let us do them, and quickly!" With that, Albus Dumbledore pulled from his pocket a wand of power. He inspected it for a few moments, before raising it high.

Minerva said, "Albus, the Potters are dead, and Harry is an orphan. Surely you must be thinking about his future. What do you plan to do?"

"Do?" Dumbledore chuckled. "Why, I plan to save the world, of course!"

One wave of the wand, and the nearest streetlights snapped out. A second, and the street cleared of cars. A third, and all of the neighborhood dogs started peeing really hard.

"Albus—"

"Sorry, so sorry. My mistake." He waved his wand a final time, and was suddenly holding a small bottle, filled to the brim with a frothing pink liquid.

The wizard stared at the potion. The witch stared at the potion. The baby slept on.

After a bit, Minerva found her voice. "Is that—could it be?" Surely, even Albus wouldn't—

But Dumbledore gave a grave nod. "It is exactly what you are thinking, Minerva, provided that you are thinking this: _is that a potion that will make one baby fall in love with another?_ "

"What?"

Dumbledore looked deep into Minerva's eyes. "Minerva, you are aware of the danger that young Harry Potter will be in, both from the Death Eaters, and from Voldemort himself, when he returns."

The witch nodded.

Dumbledore held up the potion flask. It bubbled. "Thus, I have concocted a rather clever plot. In order to increase his own power, and decrease the danger that will inevitably arise, I will place Harry in a Muggle home: that of his aunt and uncle. There he will be healthy and happy as he grows, and he will remain far from those wizards who might wish to do him harm." The wizard scratched his beard with his wand. "However, one day he will need to rejoin the wizarding world so that he can fight his war with Voldemort.

"Tell me, Minerva: do you remember the contents of the prophecy? Particularly that describing Harry possessing 'a power the Dark Lord knows not'?"

The witch nodded once more.

"What you must realize, my dear, is that this power of Harry's is not the traditional sort. He won't be a magical prodigy. Nor will he possess great good looks, an impressive vocal range, or even a whit of intelligence. No—Harry's great power will merely be this: the ability to love."

"To love? But then, if he already has this power, why is the potion necessary?"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "One morning, I was eating breakfast at Hogwarts. I was having a bowl of Cheerios and fruit. I was in the middle of a banana slice when it came to me. An idea of epically brilliant proportions. Can you guess what it was?"

"Umm…"

"I thought to myself: if Harry's power is his ability to love, then doesn't that mean that if he can love harder, he'll be even more powerful? And if he can love ridiculously hard, so incredibly hard that he remakes the world to his will because of that love, then doesn't that mean he'll be so strong that Lord Voldemort won't stand a chance? Yes! Oh, yes! And so I decided to act." Dumbledore brandished his flask. "This is a potion to make one baby love another. It is of the most powerful sort, the strongest love potion that I know how to brew; most likely the strongest that exists. It is meant to be delivered at a young age, so that the love has time to develop. By the time Harry Potter is old enough to attend Hogwarts, he will feel as if he is destined to marry the directed person, that they are his soulmate, and that without them he will not survive. This will ensure his great victory over Voldemort." The wizard gazed long and deep into the pink liquid. Then he turned back to Minerva, smiling. "So, my dear: what do you think?"

Minerva's response was something to the effect of: "That sounds insane, but you are the brilliantly wise old wizard in this duo. I'll trust you, and pray to the Lord that you know what you're doing."

"The Lord, as in...Voldemort?"

"No, Albus. Don't be dumb." She paused. "I do have a question, however: who will be on the receiving end of Harry's affections?"

"Why, Minerva, I couldn't tell you _that_. It would spoil all the fun! Plus, I imagine that Harry might resent you if you knew what will become his greatest secret. Rest assured that she is a very lovely girl. One of excellent breeding, and impeccable good looks. Why, if I were a heterosexual male baby, who knows; maybe Harry would have some competition!" Dumbledore gave a booming laugh that went on for many minutes, but then Minerva gave him a look, and it cut off abruptly. He became businesslike.

"Well, Minerva, if you would just hold baby Harry like so…"

Dumbledore poured the flask on the child's face. Most of the pink liquid dripped down the cheeks and coated the jet-black hair. A bit splashed into the open mouth.

When the task was done, Dumbledore took the baby in his arms, and looked at it sadly. "The time has come for us to part, young Harry," he said. A tear rolled down his cheek and vanished into the beard. "But we will meet again, one day, and all will be right in the world…" Dumbledore looked at Minerva. "Any last words, my dear?"

The witch looked down at baby Harry, sleeping so peacefully, unknowing, not realizing that he meant so much to so many people, or that he lived beneath a constant cloud of danger…She wondered if perhaps there was another way, if Harry could grow up in a wizarding home the way he would if his parents had lived. But Minerva didn't know how to say all that. "You're not going to put him on the doorstep, are you, Albus?" she asked finally. "That seems so very exposed…"

Dumbledore looked at her incredulously. "Of course not! My dear, who do you take me to be?" He wrapped Harry tighter in the blanket, and smoothed the hair back on his forehead. "Goodbye," he said. He placed baby Harry in the mailbox, right next to a couple of old newspapers and a wasp nest.

As Dumbledore and Minerva walked towards the street, as the night remained quiet and isolating, Minerva asked: "I _am_ curious, Albus. How do you know that this family will treat him well? Aren't you worried that they might lock him in a cupboard, or do something, well, _cruel_?"

The old wizard spoke softly. "That was a risk," he said. "One that I didn't think we could take, especially considering Harry's ability to love. Suppression of his power could cause an unprecedented danger...and so I did what I had to."

"Albus...what exactly—"

"I snuck down to this home under my invisibility cloak...and then I waited for the milkman to come...and into the milk bottles I slipped—guess what—?"

"Um..."

"Love potion, my dear. Except the Dursley family won't feel love for a female baby. Oh, no...they'll feel love for _Harry_ …"

In seconds, the road was empty. In seconds, and after only a tiny pop, Privet Drive was filled with the sound of nothing but snores...as each inhabitant of the neighborhood slept, not knowing what their future held, not knowing if, upon waking up, they would find their dreams fulfilled or shattered…

In the mailbox of Number Four, Harry Potter rolled over and smiled. He was having the most amazing dream involving the most fantastic female baby…

And the world slept on.


	2. Slightly Suggestive Handshake (Part 1)

_A/N You may notice some similarities between this Harry and the one from Seventh Horcrux, by Emerald Ashes (an absolutely fantastic fic that everyone should read, by the way). I didn't intend to do this, but I didn't shy away from it, either; harsh and sarcastic people are extremely fun to write. Though there are several fundamental differences between the two characters..._

* * *

I.

It was a warm day in August when I finished the sculpture. Then I burned my Hogwarts letter.

The sculpture was huge and marbled. It sat in the backyard of Number Four, Privet Drive, and constantly attracted the stares of passersby.

Of course, I didn't _mind_ the attention, not for the first couple hours. My art was meant to be an expression of myself, to be shared with the world. But some days, the constant crowds, the local camera crews—well, even a most arrogant, self-aggrandizing person would get irritated after a few months. As I was incredibly humble, I became angry after a day. Multiply that by 300 to understand my present state of mind.

Camera flashes went off.

"Petunia," I called, from my place high on the scaffold, "Can you send them away? My muse doesn't function well when exposed to such publicity."

My aunt looked up at me lovingly. "Of course, Harry, dear!" she responded. Then she turned to the paparazzi. "Harry is working, you pesky photographers! Shoo!" When they ignored her, Petunia turned back to me. "They won't leave!" She pouted.

"Petunia," I said, becoming even more irritated, "You have to be _harsh_ with them. Remember what we talked about yesterday? When I gave you the rifle?"

My aunt swallowed. "O-of course, Harry. Whatever you say…" While she ran inside to get the weapon, I chiseled.

I had been making the sculpture for most of the last year, slowly working my way from a chunk of rock to the perfect form. I already knew what I would title this work: _The Kindness of Hermione Granger, #8_. It came from a place deep in my heart. One that knew Hermione, and knew her kindness, and wanted to impress that kindness upon a piece of stone.

Of course, I'd never actually met the girl. I'd just been having dreams about her since I was a baby. Now, don't get the wrong idea, please; remember, _I was just a child_. These dreams didn't feature wild orgies—or—or skin to skin dancing, like you might see at bars, or at one of Uncle Vernon's work parties. I'd seen quite a few movies that I probably shouldn't have, and if I was certain of anything, I was certain of this: _that's not how I felt about Hermione Granger_. No, I wasn't perverted. No, I didn't want to have sex with her. _I simply loved her, more than I'd ever loved anyone else in the world, and I expressed that love by making gigantic abstract statues that represented her characteristics._

One of the hardest things about my relationship with Hermione, aside from the fact that I'd never met her, was the fact that I didn't know whether she loved me back. I assumed that she did. I assumed that she'd be dreaming about me, the way that I'd been dreaming about her. But in the back of my mind, I knew that someday I might see her—and she might not even know who I was. Unlikely? Sure. Possible? Unfortunately.

"Harry?" Petunia was back, gingerly holding the rifle. "What do I do?"

"Eh...just point and shoot. Like they do in the movies." I mimed a gunshot, and blew away the invisible smoke. "Can't be that hard."

"Yes, Harry," my aunt chirped. "Your wish is my command!"

I favored her with a smile. She did follow orders remarkably well. And she wasn't my biological parent, which made it even more impressive. See, I lived with my aunt and uncle, because my birth parents had died in a car crash when I was young. That's what I'd been told, anyways. Whenever I brought up the topic Petunia would start trembling and Vernon's piggy eyes would get even piggier. Then they'd both run to my side, hug me, and give me kisses.

Vernon and Petunia loved me very much. So much, in fact, that it became rather irritating. Their constant praise; their fawning; the fact that they cried each morning as I went off to school...it was enough to drive anyone up the wall. Or, in my case, up a large sculpture on a self-constructed scaffold...My art was my solace. Whenever I felt like the world was getting too harsh—well, I'd retreat to my sculpture, alone—and try to find something comforting, something stable, in the rock hard lines...in the smooth marble curves…

I pounded my chisel one last time, and a bit of marble flaked off. I watched it fall to the hot summer grass. Then I gave a scream of joy. "Sculpture Number 34, completed!" I yelled, waving my arms wildly. The paparazzi (Petunia _still_ hadn't managed to get rid of them) applauded. I took a bow.

Several reporters by the gate were raising their hands. Because I was feeling happy about the completion of my project, I decided to give them what they'd come for. I pointed at one. "Yes?"

"Would you mind explaining the motivation behind your project?" she asked. "Was it inspired by a friend or a family member, perhaps?"

I smirked. "Nope. It was inspired by a girl that I've never met, who will probably be my future wife." I pointed to another reporter. "You. Yes?"

"Would you mind telling us the name of this future wife?"

I hesitated. I'd always kept Hermione's identity a secret, because I was afraid that if anyone else realized how perfect she was, they'd find her and marry her before I could. And while my sculptures were featured in the occasional gallery, they were far too local of an attraction to result in any real identification of Hermione. "Nope, sorry, I can't," I told the reporter. "Maybe one day you'll see us in the celebrity tabloids." I gave one more bow, and then hopped off the scaffold. "Hope you all have a wonderful day!" I said.

Inside Number Four, I found Vernon on the couch with Dudley. They were trying to do a crossword puzzle (and failing miserably; I was pretty sure neither of them knew how to read).

"Harrykins!" said Vernon, when I entered. "Come, boy! Come help us!"

I shook my head. "Sorry, no can do, Vernon. I've got things to do…Any more letters for me today?"

Vernon pointed to a huge pile of unopened mail by the fireplace. "Over three hundred," he said. "This time, they came out of the toilet."

I sighed. I kept getting the same letter over and over again. It came in the mail, through the fireplace, pushed under the windows, you name it. As the letters claimed to be from a place called 'Hogwarts,' a school for 'witchcraft and wizardry,' I could only assume that I was being contacted by an elaborate prankster. That, or I was receiving spam from some sort of demonic cult.

I looked at Vernon. "You sure you don't know what these letters are about?" I asked him.

"Nope...really, I have no idea…" Vernon smiled shiftily. "Never heard of this...Hogwarts...before."

I sighed again. "I guess that means more fuel for the fire," I said. "Seems like such a waste, when you consider the time put into the calligraphy alone…"

I tossed the letters into the flames, and they slowly turned to ash.

* * *

II.

Next morning, I was eating breakfast, in something of a bad mood. Petunia had made me eggs with toast, and I was carefully crafting Hermione's face into the bread with my fork.

"That's a nice picture you're doing, dear Harry," said Petunia, coming over and kissing me on the head. "Is it Hermione?"

I scowled at this and kicked her in the knee. "Petunia, what do you think? Could anybody else look so incredibly perfect?"

She winced in pain, and squinted down at the bread. I sighed. Sometimes my aunt could be such an idiot. " _Of course it's Hermione_ , _you dipstick_ ," I said. "Now, go get me some more bread. I need to craft Hermione's hair, and she has a _lot_ of it."

While Petunia hobbled away to do this, Vernon came into the kitchen. He was rubbing sleep out of his beady little eyes, and he plunked himself down at the table next to me. When he did, I caught a whiff of whisky.

I rolled my eyes all the way up to the ceiling. "Vernon, have you been drinking again?" I asked him. At his bleary nod, I punched him in the face so that his nose broke beneath my hand. "Stop. Now. You're stinking up the place, and I can't have stink in my home; what would Hermione think?" I paused. "Also, go clean up your face. You're getting blood all over my breakfast."

He left to do this, and I smiled. Really, I was fortunate to have him in my life.

It was as I was putting the finishing touches on my food sculpture of Hermione, a few moments after Dudley had come to the table, that the doorbell rang.

Petunia said, "Dudley, go get the door."

"Make Harry get it," Dudley said.

The effect of this statement was immediate and awesome. Vernon stood up from the table, splattering nose blood right and left. He roared out a challenge. Petunia raced over from the stove, carrying a frying pan and a wicked looking knife. I, for my part, just sat back and watched the show.

"On your knees, boy!" Vernon was shouting, while Petunia raised the frying pan higher. Dudley cowered in the corner, but placed his butt in the air as his parents commanded.

Eventually, I got bored of watching Dudley get spanked, and so I wandered over to the door. After all, it could've been Hermione coming to find me.

The man who stood on the front steps was bearded, old and certainly not my one true love. Disappointed, I asked him, "What do you think you're doing at my house?"

"Hello, young man," the man said, eyes twinkling. "I am Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, and I must say that we have a great deal to talk about. Have you ever heard of a place called 'Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry'?"

While I thought about this, Dudley sobbed quietly in the background. Finally:

"...I have. I recently received quite a few letters from there, actually. Don't they have something to do with demonic summoning?" Then I gasped, everything suddenly making sense. "Wait! Are you a demon?"

The Headmaster laughed long and loud. "You're not the first person to ask me that question," he said. "But no, Hogwarts is not a place for demonic summoning, and I am not a demon. I am a wizard. In fact, you are a wizard, too! If you would just invite me inside, I will show you…"

* * *

III.

"So let me get this straight," I said slowly. "You're offering me a place in your elite school, which will teach me to become even more awesome than I already am? And the tuition is all taken care of, with the money left by my parents? Who were actually killed by a Dark Lord that _I_ , Harry James Potter, vanquished?"

Dumbledore beamed. "I think you have the right of it, Mr. Potter! If you would like to accept your place there, then there would be a bit of paperwork, the usual waivers, absolving us of guilt if you die or are horribly maimed, etc, etc…" Dumbledore leaned forward, looking at me intently. "To be frank, Mr. Potter...I believe that this is your destiny. At Hogwarts, you will discover greatness beyond your wildest dreams...satisfy every desire you could possibly have…"

Satisfying desires, eh? I _liked_ the sound of that. I looked at the man. I looked at Petunia and Vernon, who were sitting beside me, tears running down their cheeks at the thought of my departure. Then I spoke.

"Absolutely not."

All three of them jumped in shock.

"You are _not_ interested in attending Hogwarts, Mr. Potter?" Albus Dumbledore looked at me carefully. "Would you care to explain why?"

Why? It was pretty clear to me that at some isolated boarding school, way off in the country, it would be unlikely that I would simply _happen_ upon Hermione Granger. My chances of finding her would be far higher if I, as soon as I was old enough, were to just travel around London. Maybe put out some requests for information in the local papers. But I couldn't tell Dumbledore that. What if he found Hermione and married her before I got the chance? So I searched my mind for an excuse that would seem plausible.

"I'm flattered by your offer and everything," I told Dumbledore. "But I just don't think I can. You see...I'm deathly afraid of men with beards."

Dumbledore looked at me quizzically. "You don't seem very afraid of me at the moment," he observed.

"Yes, because your beard is wispy and white," I explained. "I only have a problem with _red_ beards. And the probability that such a person exists at Hogwarts is astronomically high."

Dumbledore chuckled. "I assure you, Mr. Potter, that nobody with a red beard is currently teaching at Hogwarts. And if one of the students decides to grow one, then we _will_ kill them."

Damn! My excuse hadn't worked. I needed another one, a better one, that could pass muster— "Umm—"

Dumbledore kept talking. "Mr Potter, I find it hard to believe that Hogwarts would be a bad fit for you. You'd get a chance to be with other children like yourself. Why, just this morning I paid a house call to a certain Muggleborn child, one who would probably like to become your friend. She'll be in first year like you, and her name is Hermione Gra—"

I didn't hear the rest of Dumbledore's sentence, because I was too busy running in circles and screaming with joy.

Hogwarts was going to be _perfect_.


	3. Slightly Suggestive Handshake (Part 2)

I.

King's Cross Station was loud and steamy and packed with people. I raced through the building, searching for the right platform. The Dursleys followed at my heels.

"Harry, wait!" called Vernon, panting loudly as I sped up. Platform Six...Platform Seven… "I think...I'm having a heart-attack…" I looked back in time to see the man collapse to the ground. A trolley trundled slowly over his prone body, but I continued on.

"Harry, baby!" That was Aunt Petunia. "We can't keep up, honey! And we need to...say goodbye…"

The Dursleys had been insufferable all week. Ever since I had decided to go with Dumbledore to Diagon Alley (where we had purchased all of my school equipment and also a Snowy Owl), ever since I had accepted my place at what Petunia and Vernon were now calling a "freak school," they had been crying on and off. And begging me not to go. I would be so happy to be done with them...and be with _Hermione_...

"I can't hear you!" I called back. Then I halted, and looked down at my ticket. Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Not nine or ten...but where…? I squinted towards where the platform should have been.

Petunia took this moment to catch up, panting like a race-horse. Dudley dragged behind her. Vernon was nowhere to be seen; presumably, he was where Petunia had left him, the horrible wife that she was.

"Do you know where the platform is?" I asked her pointedly.

Petunia looked at me, teary eyed. "Oh, Harry," she said, "I can't let you—can't let you go!"

I was not in the mood for these lovey-dovey games. "Shut up," I told her, "and tell me how to find my destiny. Otherwise, I won't be returning for the summer." Christmas was out of the question, of course, assuming that Hermione would be staying at Hogwarts. I made a mental note to ask her as soon as possible.

"You—you must—"

"Yes?"

But then she broke down sobbing, and I grew impatient. I shoved her away, and stood on top of a random trolley. "Can _anybody_ tell me how to get to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters?" I yelled. "In return for this information, I am willing to give five gold galleons _or_ a snowy owl named 'Lugnut'! Take your pick!"

When nobody responded, I screamed this out again, except I added Vernon's adult film collection into the offer. Immediately, a huge line formed.

"Yes?" I looked down from my perch, and beheld the first in line: a boy about my age, with flaming red hair and wizarding robes so used they were missing the whole chunk that covered the butt. "Are you here to accept a trade?"

The kid looked confused. "Er...mate? What are you doing? The platform's that way." He pointed to the barrier between the two stations, where I beheld groups of people bearing owls running into walls and disappearing.

I hopped down from my perch and shook the guy's hand. He said his name was Ron Weasley, and I said that I was Harry Potter. There was a moment of recognition. This ended with me showing him every scar I'd ever received, including the one from my circumcision. He seemed nice enough, not that I cared much about Ron's niceness; I only cared about Hermione.

"Say," I said to Ron. "You haven't seen a first year girl named Hermione Granger, have you?"

He shook his head. "Why do you care? Girls are icky."

I thought about punching him in the face, and then realized that this wasn't such a great idea, with everyone watching and all. Plus, I kind of liked the guy. So I shoved him in the chest. While he was on the floor, I made to push my trolley away. Then I stopped, remembering. "Nice to meet you, Ron," I said. "Also, here is your film collection." I placed the package in his trolley. Then I went through the barrier.

* * *

II.

The wizarding side of King's Cross station was a lot like the Muggle side, except that people were dressed in a far stranger manner. I saw one person wearing an electric blue top-hat, and I saw another talking to a moldy old turban. I thought about pulling out my wizard robes, and then decided against it; my complexion didn't quite mix with the black of the fabric, and I needed to look as good as possible for my meeting of Hermione.

Once on the train, I thought about how I should proceed. Did I go methodically down the train, starting at the back? Should I go to the front, and ask the conductor if they could make an announcement? I decided to go with the former. I didn't want to attract too much attention, and surely Hermione wouldn't want to be embarrassed, what with her probable nervousness about seeing me.

At that moment, I was tapped on the back. This sent a jolt of excitement through my whole body, and I spun around, fully expecting to see the love of my life—but it was only Ron, wheeling a trunk.

"What do you want?" I asked him, irritated.

He didn't seem phased by my rude tone. "Fancy finding a compartment?" he asked me.

For a moment I considered sending him away. After all, I didn't want a competitor for Hermione's love. Then I shrugged, realizing that nobody in their right mind could possibly love Ron over me. "I'm searching for a special compartment," I told him. "If you want, you can help me look."

I told Ron that I was searching for a particular person, with eyes like the moon, and the face of Kindness.

"Her name is Hermione Granger," I explained. "And I am not in any way in love with her."

"Okay, Harry."

Together, we ran through the train cars, knocking on all of the compartment doors. We asked everyone we saw if they knew anyone that fit the description I had given Ron, to no avail. Finally, we reached the end of the train, and Ron collapsed inside the nearest empty compartment. "Sorry, Harry," he gasped, sweat falling all across his face. "You're going to have to continue without me. Are you sure that Hermione is even on the train? Maybe you made a mistake…"

I sat down across from Ron in the compartment, and looked at him incredulously. My hands itched to throttle his throat. "Me? Make a mistake?" I laughed harshly. "Don't be an idiot, Ron." Then I laughed some more, because I was angry and irritated and _where was my love, Hermione Granger, the most perfect, the most amazing girl in existence_ —?

A knocking came at the compartment door. I was tired from my searching, so I said, "Ron, you lazy boy. Could you get that?" I spread out on the seat and closed my eyes. Maybe the candy lady was here, and I could try and eat away my depression with some chocolate.

"Has anyone seen a toad? A boy named Neville's lost one."

My head snapped up off the seat at those words. I _knew that voice_ —

I looked at the compartment door, and there she was.

Hermione Granger, in the flesh. Dark bushy hair. Slightly too large front teeth. Eyes that could pierce a soul...

My voice was quietly muttering things like, "He-he-Hermione" and "Peep-peep." I took some deep breaths, trying to gain control over my body.

Meanwhile, Hermione was talking to Ron. "I'm Hermione Granger, by the way," she was saying. "And you are?"

Ron did not get to answer this, because at long last, I had gained control of my vocal cords. I let out a scream of pure, unadulterated joy, leaping off my seat. "Wooooo!"

No doubt attracted by the familiar nature of my voice, Hermione looked past Ron. Our eyes met. She looked like she was going to say something, but then thought better of it—

That was all right. This was not the time for talk.

See, I had spent hours and hours the night before, thinking about what I would do when I met Hermione. Did I sing her a song? Recite a poem? Do some sort of dance? But then I went through the list of movies I had seen, and I realized that there was one thing that soulmates _always_ did, without fail, when they met. Even if it did strike me as slightly mushy...

I leapt forward, moving faster than I had ever moved in my life. In no time at all, I had crossed the compartment and had placed my body in front of Hermione's, my arms around her back. Our lips met. My eyes closed. This was the moment I had been waiting for! This was the beginning of the beginning, of a life of deep fulfillment, of—

In the background, I could hear somebody screaming, but I didn't care, because who cared about people in pain when there were people in love?

Distantly, I heard voices:

" _Get off of her, Harry! Get off!"_

" _Can't you see she can't breathe?"_

" _Young man, if you do not unhand that girl at once, I will be forced to spell you!"_

" _Stupefy!"_

* * *

III.

When I came to, I was lying on the floor of my compartment, and Ron was looking down at me worriedly. "Harry?" His face swam above me, and I muttered something about butt pain. Then the world snapped into focus, and I remembered what had been going on. Hermione and I had been _kissing_ —but then we were rudely interrupted—

I leapt to my feet, eager to get back to Hermione, but found myself restrained by the rough hands of the candy lady.

I found myself growing angry. Nobody keeps me from my one true love. "What do you think you're doing, you bastard?" I screamed.

"You need to calm down, young man," the woman said. "You nearly caused this young lady here to faint!"

I disregarded this, and looked all around the compartment. My eyes found Hermione standing by the door, looking extremely uncomfortable.

"Hermione—what—?"

She looked away from me. "Is he okay?" she asked Ron. "Does he need medication, or something?"

 _Medication_? I squinted at Hermione, trying to figure out where she was going with this. Of course I didn't medication; all that I needed was her love. Was she trying a clever ploy, playing coy? I considered the situation, searching for any reasonable explanations—

Suddenly, the world turned on its head, and I felt a darkness descend over me. My breath caught in my throat. Could it be...that Hermione didn't… _love me_ _back_?

Then I started to hyperventilate.

Could that be possible? I had assumed that Hermione had been dreaming about me the way that I had been dreaming about her—making abstract sculptures of my characteristics to place around her childhood home. Building shrines in the corner of her bedroom, writing letters that would remain unsent…

"Oh, _no_."

Everyone was staring at me, and after a moment I realized that I had spoken aloud. "I—I—" I stammered, "I thought—" My mouth snapped shut. If Hermione didn't love me back, then she probably didn't know who I was. And if she didn't know who I was, then that meant—

I nearly lost consciousness again when I realized. How she must have perceived it—a random, though extremely handsome, guy kissing her on the _mouth_ —

What did she _think_ about me? Probably nothing good. Obviously, I would have to rectify the situation…I gathered my wits about me.

"Hermione, I'm so very sorry," I said sweetly. "I'm not insane, and I don't need medication. What happened was an accident. You see, I was so incredibly hungry that when I heard you knock that I thought it was the candy lady and that your lips were a lollipop." I chuckled weakly. "Isn't that the funniest thing you've ever heard?"

There was a long silence, during which I pretended to be casually looking about, while in reality my mind was running in circles, weighing possible lies. Not one of my best excuses, I decided, but I was pretty confident that it would work.

And sure enough, Ron was nodding along. "Yeah," he said to Hermione. "Harry was really hungry. He told me so. And you know, your lips are very red…I almost licked them myself!"

I burst out laughing at this, while doing a mental eye roll. Was he serious? It was possible that he was just backing me up, but...could he love Hermione, too? I resolved to ask him at the earliest opportunity. While I knew that I couldn't possibly become jealous of the guy, it was a good idea to know what he might try, so I could warn Hermione...In fact, maybe I could use this information to gain her trust, her friendship, and eventually, her hand in marriage.

Hermione still looked suspicious, as did the candy lady. However, neither wanted to push things, apparently. The candy lady left (after Ron bought some chocolate bars), muttering about needing to continue her rounds. Hermione lingered in the doorway. "It was nice to meet you, Ron," she said. She looked at me for a bit, saying nothing.

As she was about to leave, I spoke. "Was it nice to meet me, too?"

"Erm…"

I decided to play the fame card, to leave her with a good impression. "I'm Harry Potter, you know. I have a scar on my forehead, and also several other places. Would you like to see?"

She shook her head. "Well...I'd better be going…" Hermione left.

The compartment was immediately very sad and very dark.

I looked at Ron. "Do you know, Ron?" I said. "Hogwarts isn't off to the start that I imagined."

I don't think Ron heard me. He was busy eating sweets, and his face was coated with chocolate.

I went back to my thoughts. Well. Even if Hermione didn't love me _now_ , that didn't mean she wouldn't love me at some future time. Preferably soon, but I could wait. And really, was it so terrible that she had rejected me? Provided she _hadn't_ been having the same dreams, she hardly knew me at all! I guess I would just have to forge a strong relationship...the normal way.

With that, it was decided. I would execute a crafty plan to make Hermione realize her deep feelings for me, even if it took all year. And at the end...of course, we would get married.

I turned to Ron.

"Do you know of any good wedding venues?" I asked. And then, to make sure he wouldn't get the wrong idea: "It's not that I like Hermione, or anything. I just want to be prepared in case I find true love at Hogwarts…"


	4. Slightly Suggestive Handshake (Part 3)

I.

The Great Hall of Hogwarts was spacious and candlelit, the perfect sort of place to have a romantic dinner. It was also extremely crowded. As the first years filed in, heads craned to look. I heard a few of them whispering my name, and saw a couple of fingers pointing in my direction.

"That's me!" I called out to the crowd. "Harry Potter, the one and only! Autographs are available, for a reasonable price!" I figured that the more money I had, the more interested Hermione would be.

Pansy Parkinson, a scowling girl who looked like a cow, poked me in the back. "Shut it, Potter!" she hissed.

I ignored her, and remained facing forward. When you had amazing good looks, some people would just get so _jealous_. However, I decided that I would try and decrease my self-marketing; I wanted to seem humble. Thus, I shut my mouth and contented myself by waving at everyone and pointing at my many scars as I passed them by.

Up before the Head Table, a woman named Professor McGonagall was saying something about 'Sorting.' She held up a moldy old hat.

"This will tell you everything you need to know about the different Houses," McGonagall explained. "While you are here at Hogwarts, your House members will be your family; you will eat with them, play team sports with them, and even sleep with them. Any questions?"

I immediately decided that I would be in Hermione's house, and to hell with anyone who tried to stop me. I raised my hand.

"Yes, Mr…" McGonagall looked to where I was pointing at my scar (the forehead one), and she smiled thinly. "Potter?"

"Could we request to be in a House with another student, Professor?" I asked. And then, in order to keep up innocent appearances, I said, "I just really want to make sure that I'm in a House with my dear friend Ron, here—" I patted Ron on the head, and he grinned like a puppy. "And I'm pretty sure that Ron's going to be in a House with Hermione Granger, so I'm just wondering if maybe we could all just be in a House together."

"No, Mr. Potter, you may not," Professor McGonagall said firmly. "Individual sorting is a Hogwarts tradition, and it will remain that way. Rest assured that you will find friends in every House." She smiled. "I myself have been at Hogwarts for thirty-five years, and I have never known a friendless student."

In the audience, a whole host of students raised their hands, yelling things like, "What about me?" However, McGonagall ignored them, and soldiered on. "Without further ado, I give you...the Hogwarts Sorting Hat!"

She placed the moldy thing on a stool, and it sang some boring song about bravery, loyalty, ambition...I hardly listened. I was busy searching for Hermione's face in the line, and when I found it, up at the front, my heart gave a jolt. She was looking so incredibly kind under the candlelight…

I spent a while admiring the way the light reflected off Hermione's hair. Then the hat was done, and McGonagall was unrolling a long list of names. At this, I tensed. It was imperative that Hermione be Sorted before I was; otherwise, I wouldn't know which House to beg the hat to put me into.

"In previous years we have done the sorting in alphabetical order," McGonagall said. "It is something of a tradition." My heart leapt at this. Granger came before Potter...which meant that I could ask the hat to be in Hermione's House— "But it has come to my attention that this is consistently unfair to those students who have names at the end of the alphabet. Therefore, we will be changing things up this year, going in _reverse_ alphabetical order."

A group of students (Ron among them) cheered. I, however, was livid. How dare they—how _dare_ they—

"What is wrong with you, you bloody wanker?" I yelled. Unfortunately, this got covered up among the cheering, and so my protest died unheard. I spent the next few minutes cursing McGonagall under my breath. Then I realized that I was wasting valuable planning time. I needed to ensure that Hermione and I were in the same House, but _how_ would I manage this?

I was so absorbed in my plotting that I hardly noticed when Ron was made a Gryffindor. When my name was called, there was a sudden hush.

" _Potter, did she say?_ "

" _The Potter?"_

I wandered up to the front, too distracted to even wave to the crowd. I gave McGonagall a halfhearted glare. Then I jammed the hat on my head.

Immediately, a snide little voice spoke. "Why _hello_ there," it said. "Welcome to the place under my brim."

"Hello!" I mentally squeaked out, modulating my voice to sound as similar to that of an 11 year old girl's as I could. "I'm Hermione Granger!"

You see, during my thinking I had realized that the only sure way of getting into Hermione's house was to _be_ Hermione. As that wasn't possible, I decided that I would simply do my Hermione impression, and hope for the best. I mean, I had spent a decade dreaming about the girl; I knew her _extremely_ well.

The hat paused, and I sensed suspicion. "Harry Potter?" it said. "What _are_ you doing?"

"Nope!" I squeaked. "I'm not Harry. He's in line, waiting to be sorted. _I'm_ Hermione Granger, and I'm a good little girl who likes reading books and playing hop-scotch! Sort me into the house where I belong!"

There was a long silence.

Eventually, I became impatient. "Hurry up, please!" I squeaked. "I don't have all day! There's a certain extremely attractive boy that I want to meet, his name his Harry Potter, tee-hee!"

The hat spoke. "Mr. Potter," it said, "I unfortunately do not have time to examine your full psyche. However, let me ask you a question, and please, answer it honestly: _Is everything alright_?"

Argh! Why wouldn't the hat buy my ploy? I gave a mental growl. "Fine!" I told the hat. "I'm Harry Potter, okay? I just really _really_ need to get sorted into the house that Hermione Granger is going to, because I love her, and we need to be together forever! Got it?"

The hat paused, taking all this in. Then it laughed in my ear. "I'm afraid I can't do that, Harry Potter," it said. "I must sort the children as I see fit...it's a Hogwarts tradition, you know."

I gave the hat a mental punch, which it ignored.

"Hmm…" it said. "What you tried to do there was certainly clever. Crafty enough for Slytherin, perhaps. And you certainly have ambition…"

"Which House is that one?" Now I was regretting the fact that I hadn't listened to the song. "The House of the duffle bags?"

"No, no." The hat laughed some more. "But I don't see that working out. After all, everyone knows that Slytherins cannot love. And Ravenclaws tend to be a bit brighter than you. But Gryffindor...tell me, Harry Potter: are you brave?"

"I'm probably the most courageous guy you'll ever meet. Unless Hermione isn't brave, in which case, neither am I."

"Yes. Yes, I see that now. Well, I guess that leaves me only one option...and it _is_ the House of the loyal, after all, which you are...to a certain person. Better be...HUFFLEPUFF!"

I wasn't yet sure if this was a good thing, seeing as Hermione hadn't been sorted. So I decided to play it calm. I took off the hat, and bowed to the other students. They applauded.

At the Hufflepuff table, a couple of students came over and clapped me on the back. A bunch more tried to shake my hand and touch my scars. I let them, because I appreciated adulation as much as the next hero.

"Good to have you in our House," they said.

Eventually I pushed their groping hands away and turned to watch the other students.

Draco Malfoy, a kid with slicked back blond hair, got called. Upon being made a Slytherin, he bowed, just as I had, before stalking down to his table like he owned the place. Was it just me, or did all the Slytherins seem like entitled little jerks? If so, then I would have to make some serious changes; the only people at Hogwarts who were allowed to act entitled were Hermione (being the princess that she was), and yours truly.

I scowled at the thought of Malfoy. However, my scowl quickly became a grin as the name "Granger, Hermione" was called.

I crossed my fingers under the table as Hermione came forward. Her body moved in a way that was so kind it took my breath away; her hair splayed out behind her like she was Compassion caught in a windstorm.

"Please be in Hufflepuff, please be in Hufflepuff," I muttered under my breath. A couple of my housemates gave me an odd look. "What?" I asked them. "I think she might boost House morale."

Up at the front, Hermione had placed the hat on her head. Her eyes closed, she was concentrating hard—

" _Please be in Hufflepuff, please be in Hufflepuff—"_

Suddenly, as I sat, praying as hard as I could, heart thumping like a drum, I was struck by a terrible thought. What if the Sorting Hat told Hermione how I had pretended to be her? That I had—had said I was in love with her? How much could the hat know, or even remember? What if it told her how I'd been dreaming about her every night? Or worse: that I had actually been trying to kiss her that afternoon in the train car, and I most certainly had not mistaken her lips for a lollipop?

"Oh, _no_ ," I wailed. I leapt up, ready to shout something about it all being lies—but that's when it happened.

The hat roared, "GRYFFINDOR!"

And my heart nearly split in two.

* * *

II.

There are several kinds of people in life. The first group are those that are strong in the face of sadness. Sure, they get their feelings hurt, their hearts broken—but they rebound, stronger than ever. They get back up, prepared to take on the world.

The second group—those are the _wimps_. They're the little ones who are always crying; who can't handle even the slightest insult, the tiniest attack. Kick them in the kneecap, and they'll be down for ages, moaning about it. They're insufferable people, and I couldn't stand them.

Unfortunately, I was one of those insufferable people.

And _that_ was why, when the news of Hermione's new House broke, and I felt my heart tear in two—well, I went a little ballistic. I'm not proud of the fact, but there it is. It's not like I wanted it to happen. It's just, the pain, the disappointment, the thought of failure...it _gets_ to you. It worms its way into your head, and you're forced to either suppress it or let it out.

This was me letting it out.

"OH MY GOD, NO!" I screamed at the top of my lungs. I stood up on my bench and dove forward onto the table, smashing goblets, plates, anything I could get my hands on. "THIS," I yelled, "IS SO INCREDIBLY WRONG! SOMEBODY _DO SOMETHING_!"

I looked to the Head Table, but they were simply sitting; sitting and staring towards my table, where (I later heard) someone was acting inappropriately. I wasn't sure why they refused to act, and I didn't care. I felt the tears well up in my eyes. Then, without warning, my stomach was filled with a deep rage, beyond any that I'd ever experienced before. I took that rage, and I channeled it up, up, up and through my wand arm. I felt power coursing, begging for release—

A wall of fire shot out of my arm, and incinerated the Sorting Hat where it lay.

Several students were caught in the blast, and were turned to ash.

I immediately felt _way_ better. The rage disappeared. I smiled.

But it was at this moment, during the shivering second of silence that followed my awesome display of power, that I came to my senses.

I had just incinerated the Sorting Hat _._

I had just _incinerated_ the _Sorting Hat._

Professor McGonagall would probably be mad, and I'd be expelled—and that meant that I wouldn't be able to go to school with Hermione, and it wouldn't even matter that we weren't in the same House—

Once again, I found myself in a situation that called for some quick thinking.

I immediately hopped from the table and dusted myself off. I pointed to one of the candles that floated above the students. "Did anyone _see that_?" I asked loudly. "That candle just killed the Sorting Hat!" I paused, and considered. "Also, probably those students!"

* * *

III.

It was not twenty minutes later that I found myself in the Headmaster's office, surrounded by hissing instruments and portraits of really old people.

But despite all of this finery, Dumbledore's face was grave, and he had eyes only for me.

"Mr. Potter," he said. "May I ask what transpired during the Feast this evening?"

"Of course, Headmaster," I said graciously. I was not one to squander attention. "It is a thrilling tale, and I wish to do it justice...allow me to gather my thoughts…I'll need to give you the proper background, you understand." I cleared my throat. "Okay. It all started on a blustery evening, when the four founders of Hogwarts, Godric, Rowena, Salazar, and, um, Helga—were sitting around a chamberpot, and thinking of how to make a great school—"

For many minutes, I spoke, telling the story of how the Sorting had been founded, of how the Houses began, and of the building of the Great Hall. Of course, I had no idea what had really happened, and so I made it all up, but surely Dumbledore didn't know, either. Despite his earlier seriousness, he listened with increasingly close attention, only stopping me to ask the occasional question.

An hour later, I was still going strong. I had come to a really good part, about how the Houses got their mascots. "And _that_ was when Rowena gave a big long laugh, and said, 'Salazar, you cannot be serious!' And Salazar said, all quiet and deadly, like a snake: 'Rowena, it truly is twelve inches—'"

Dumbledore hooted loudly, rolling around in his seat. "He didn't!"

I nodded. "He did! But then Rowena said—"

" _Excuse me_."

Dumbledore and I both turned to look towards the door, where a Professor I recognized from the feast was standing, dripping grease and disgust.

"Severus!" cried Dumbledore. He gestured to the man. "Come, come, sit by my side! Harry was just telling me of the school's history—"

"It seems," said Severus, who looked like a long-haired bat, "That I am missing something of great import. Is it not the case that Mr. Potter killed the Sorting Hat and several students during the Sorting Ceremony?"

"Whatever do you mean, Severus?" Dumbledore chuckled. "Harry did no such thing. Didn't you hear him say that it was the candle's fault? Isn't that right, Harry?" Apparently, the storytelling had convinced him of my goodness.

I nodded. "That's precisely it, Headmaster."

Dumbledore turned back to Severus, beaming. "You see? How could we blame him for what he clearly wasn't involved in?" He pointed a long finger at Severus. "You're just eager to get him in trouble, because you didn't like James."

Dumbledore looked at me. "James was your father, Harry, and he was the greatest man I ever knew. Though he was occasionally a bit of a jerk to people. People like Professor Snape, here." He gestured to the bat-man.

"That's right," sneered Snape. "Though I hardly think you could call him 'great,' Headmaster. After all, he did once admit to me that his—"

"That's enough, Severus." Dumbledore winked at me. "Professor Snape also knew your mother, Lily Evans. She was in his class at school, and they were great... _friends_." The way Dumbledore said that last word, along with his obvious wink, keyed me in on an important fact: Snape had, at some point, wanted to have sex with my mother. Judging by the hungry look on his face, it was entirely possible that he was still interested. I favored Snape with a look of pity.

"You do realize she's dead, right?" I asked him.

"Of course I realize that, you imbecile," the man hissed.

"Just checking," I said. "Though perhaps she lives on in your fantasies."

While the man was spluttering and searching for a reply, I turned to Dumbledore. "Since we're on the topic of friendship, let me tell you something important."

"Yes?" The Headmaster's eyes twinkled.

"I am in love with Ron Weasley. So incredibly in love. In fact, I'm pretty sure if I don't get put in Gryffindor with him, I will become an angst ridden teenager, or possibly die. So, if you could, you know, re-Sort me, that would be fantastic."

Dumbledore stroked his beard. "I would like it if you were a Gryffindor, Harry," he admitted. "I was a Gryffindor myself, and I must tell you, the memories are very arousing. But…" A sad look came over his face. "I'm afraid that I can't allow it. The Sorting...well, it is an incredibly important ceremony. As you have already detailed quite beautifully, it started with the first generation of Hogwarts students. To break it now would be tantamount to a betrayal of the Founders' good names."

I gnashed my teeth. "Can't you make _one_ exception, Headmaster? I mean, I _am_ the Boy-Who-Lived. Also, I have an incredible amount of money in my Gringotts vault. I would be willing to sweeten the deal."

Dumbledore considered me for a moment. "No, Harry," he finally decided. "That would be unwise. Who are we to question the wisdom of the Sorting Hat, may its soul rest in peace?"

Since it seemed like I would get no farther on the issue tonight, I decided to let it rest. For now. "I understand, Headmaster." Though of course I did not. "May I go?"

"Of course, Harry. I'm sure that a bed is waiting for you in the Hufflepuff dormitories...all cozy and warm…why, I remember _my_ first night as a Hogwarts student. That was back when Hogwarts could only afford one bed, so all of the students slept together...oh, it was _marvelous_..."

* * *

IV.

Ron Weasley, the dashing, red-haired prince who had recently been named a Gryffindor, was getting ready for bed. He brushed his teeth; he found his pajamas in his trunk. Beside him, his new dorm-mates, Seamus Finnegan and Dean Thomas, did the same.

As Ron lay back in his four-poster, a smile lit his innocent face. His first day of Hogwarts done, and already things were looking up. He had made friends with Harry Potter—he had been named a Gryffindor, as his father and mother had been before him—and his new Housemates were of the attractive sort. In fact, that Hermione Granger—

"Hello, Ron."

"AHH!" Ron screamed and sat up abruptly, whacking his head on the bedpost.

I tutted from my spread-eagle position under the covers, right underneath where Ron had just been lying. "Really, Ron. Was that necessary?"

"Was that—? What're you—argh!" Ron spluttered, rubbing his head.

"I'm sorry," I told Ron. "You're honestly not making sense to me."

" _What are you doing in my bed_?" he got out.

"Oh. Well, Dumbledore refused to let me become a Gryffindor, which means that I don't have a bed to sleep in."

"And the bed in the Hufflepuff dorms is…?"

"Inadequate, yes." I nodded. "Anyways, Ron, can you believe that they have sex-segregated dorms at Hogwarts? That is _so_ medieval." I rolled my eyes. "Fortunately, I have already started a petition to get that changed, along with several other things. Including, but not limited to, integrated bathrooms, integrated bathtubs, and integrated classes."

"Umm, the classes are already…"

"Furthermore," I told Ron, ignoring his useless drivel, "I believe that you owe me an apology."

Ron looked at me incredulously. "What for?"

"You sat on my body."

"You were in my bed!"

"So? That doesn't give you the right to touch me like that, does it?"

Ron groaned and rubbed his head. "Look, Harry, mate, I just want to get to sleep. In my bed, without you in it. If it's that important that you sleep in this dorm, you can sleep on the floor over there." He pointed to the corner. "Okay?"

Ron pulled the covers off my body. Then he screamed. "Dammit, Harry! Why didn't you tell me you sleep naked?"


	5. Slightly Suggestive Handshake (Part 4)

I.

At breakfast the next morning, Ron was looking distinctly irritated, and Hermione was nowhere to be seen. Thus, never one to pass up the opportunity to make friends (Hermione probably liked those who were well connected), I sat down at the Slytherin table next to a kid whose name I remembered from the Sorting as Draco Malfoy. Behind him stood a burly first year that I thought was called Crabbe.

As I grabbed some toast and jam, Draco favored me with a sneer. "What do you think you're doing, Potter?" he asked. " _Hufflepuffs_ aren't allowed at this table."

I gave him my brightest smile. "Just trying to be friendly," I said. "Oh, look, is that the mail?"

Sure enough, hundreds of owls were swooping down from the windows, with letters held about their talons. Several wicked looking tawny birds, bigger than all the others, landed at Malfoy's place. Malfoy grabbed for their legs, but I was faster.

"Junk," I said, ripping open the scrolls. "Junk, junk…and...what do we have here?" I pulled out a juicy looking hamburger, and favored Draco with a look of disgust. "Does Mommy send you a sandwich everyday? How does that even make sense? The school serves hot lunches for students!"

Draco blushed and muttered something about his "sensitive stomach." However, I did not have time to question him further, because at that moment Professor McGonagall appeared among the students, handing out schedules.

"Mr. Potter!" she snapped, "Get back to your table!"

"Sure thing, Professor. I will do that the moment I am done with my breakfast." Of course, I did no such thing. Instead, I snatched Draco's schedule, and looked at the first class. "Charms," I read, "with Professor Flitwick. Slytherins and Gryffindors." Which meant that Hermione would be there...At this, I turned to my new friend, Draco. "Excellent," I said. "I guess we'll be attending class together!"

* * *

II.

It turned out that Professor Flitwick was a tiny half-goblin. He stood atop a pile of books in order to see over the podium.

I turned to the person next to me, a round-faced Gryffindor named Neville Longbottom.

"Why do you think he chooses to live that way?" I asked Neville. "Why not just buy a smaller podium?"

Neville shrugged, and didn't meet my eyes.

Once roll call was over, Professor Flitwick told us that we would be making feathers float across our desks.

"Does anybody know the words for such a spell?" he squeaked.

Hermione Granger's hand struck the air a heavy blow. "The words to make a feather fly," she said rapidly, "are _Wingardium Leviosa_."

Flitwick looked impressed. He awarded Hermione twenty points.

Huh, I thought, as Flitwick explained the details of the charm. I'd known Hermione was smart, but this defied all explanation—how could she possibly raise her hand so fast? Did she have some sort of magically reinforced muscles that allowed for quicker movement?

Regardless, I knew that, on the first day of class, I would need to catch Hermione's attention. And to do that, I would have to be equally brilliant—or, well, more than an idiot.

Flitwick marched among the students, putting us into pairs. Quick as lightning, I darted to stand by Hermione—but apparently half-goblins can really move when they want to, because Flitwick was faster. "Potter," he squeaked, "Why don't you work with Longbottom, here?"

I groaned loudly. Was he actively trying to sabotage my chances with Hermione?

Once Neville and I had cleared off a small desk to work on, I saw an opening. I gave Neville our feather to play with, and put my hand in the air.

"Yes, Potter?"

"Professor, I don't quite understand the point of what we're doing," I said. "Could you explain...further?"

Professor Flitwick raised his eyebrows. "I already have explained it at the beginning of class, Potter. We are trying to make feathers float! This is useful for many reason…" He started to talk about flying charms and rescuing Hippogriffs from trees, but I wasn't listening.

"No, no," I told Flitwick, smiling. "I understand all of that—I am pretty brilliant, after all. But what I don't get is: why are we doing _this_?" I gestured around the classroom. "Why do we do anything at all? I mean, sure, magic is cool, but eventually even witches and wizards die, right? And then they fade into oblivion like the next Muggle…their life's work made irrelevant..." A thought struck me. "Unless— _are_ some wizards immortal?" I gasped. "Dumbledore does look extremely old—do you know his birthdate?" Then I had another thought. "Or—wait—maybe the Headmaster was never even born at all! Maybe he's just always existed, running through time forever, slowly growing his beard…"

Professor Flitwick stared at me for a long time. Then he suggested I continue this conversation with Dumbledore at some later time.

"Yeah, sure," I said. "Only, I'm asking you." I thought for a second. "Maybe if I explain it in a different way?" Then I gave him a winding analogy that involved a deep understanding of the multiverse and how it affected hair growth. After a while, I decided I'd impressed Hermione enough (who was sitting a couple of desks over) and concluded with a pleasant, "And what do you think?"

Professor Flitwick didn't answer. When I came up to look, he'd fallen asleep.

* * *

III.

Once Charms was over, I followed Neville (and thus Hermione) to Transfiguration. I tried to draw him into my conversation, but he didn't seem very interested; he kept looking at his watch and muttering about lunch.

We took our seats together in the back of the classroom.

When Professor McGonagall finally arrived, she passed out a needle to each student. "Today," she explained, "you will be turning these needles into buttons." When she handed Neville his needle, he gave it back.

"My grandmother says I'm not to be trusted with pointy things," he told the Professor.

McGonagall's nostrils flared. "In my classroom, Mr. Longbottom, I maintain a disciplined environment. Occasionally we will be using sharp objects, and you will do the same. I assure you that, in all my years of teaching, I have never had a student get hurt. At least, not on the first day of class."

Neville gulped as he took back his needle.

"It's going to be okay, Neville," I said. I patted him on the shoulder. "I'm sitting right next to you, and I'm Harry Potter."

Strangely enough, this didn't make him look any less pale.

I placed my needle on the desk. I waved my wand. Nothing happened. "Huh," I said, looking around. I had done all of the motions, I had concentrated the proper amount, so what was I doing wrong?

Neville was having an equal amount of trouble. He was concentrating hard, his face scrunched up like he was giving birth—but try as he might, the needle just wasn't turning into a button.

Suddenly, I had an idea. "Neville," I said slowly. "Maybe you and I just don't have enough power yet to make this happen. I mean, we _are_ only first years…"

Around me, groups of students were holding up their transfigured buttons. I ignored them.

"So I have a proposition for you. What if—what _if_ —we try using multiple wands at once? If you take my wand in your left hand, and I take yours in my right—" I demonstrated, so that Neville and I were gripping both wands tightly, together— "and then if we give them a little wave—"

The resulting explosion left us all coughing purple smoke, and turned every object in the room into a muffin.

Professor McGonagall raced over to us, covering her head. "What in Merlin's name have you _done_?" she shrieked, as muffins, once dust particles, cascaded down from the ceiling.

I gulped. "It was Neville's fault!" I yelled over the coughing students. "Seriously, everyone, I had nothing to do with it!"

Once the muffins stopped raining down, and everyone had settled back into their seats, Ron gave a shriek. "Professor!" he yelled, holding up a muffin with a large bite in its center. "I think—I think I might've eaten Seamus!"

* * *

IV.

Potions was my next class, and I was feeling _good_. So far, the day had been going well, with none of the teachers questioning my presence among the Gryffindor pack. Apparently Hogwarts was rather lenient about that sort of thing, despite the claims about maintaining strict discipline.

However, when Severus Snape entered the dungeons, a sudden hush descended on the room. The man quickly swept up to the front. He pulled a scroll from his robes, and started to call names.

I watched this impassively from my place in the back row next to Draco. "The man clearly needs a haircut," I said, not bothering to keep my voice low. "Also, he could use a shower. What is the state of Hogwarts finances that the teachers don't even get the use of proper facilities?"

At this, Snape's head snapped up. Of course, I should have expected the man who looked like a bat to have powerful hearing. Maybe even echolocation.

"Potter!" Snape spat. "What are you doing in this classroom? _Where_ is the rest of your House?"

"I don't know, Professor." I thought about denying the existence of Hufflepuff House entirely, but I figured that wouldn't fly with someone who had taught at Hogwarts for years. So, as always, I improvised. "What does it even mean to be part of a House, anyways?" I asked Snape. "Is there some sort of objective force in the universe that makes someone a Gryffindor, or is it merely an arbitrary categorization imposed upon us all by an entity that is just calling out nonsense words, AKA the Sorting Hat? So, to ask an insightful question of my own: do Houses even exist at all? And if not, should we really allow ourselves to be constrained by such discriminatory labeling? I say, let's break the system! _Who's with me_?"

After Snape had finished taking away fifty House points and giving me a week's worth of detentions, I found myself shunted into the hallway with Ron, the lone person who had cheered at the end of my speech. The redhead gripped the front of my robes in feverish excitement. "That was brilliant, Harry!" he yelled. "What are we going to do next?" He looked ready to start a revolution.

I snorted. "Honestly, Ron. Do you have a brain? What I said was utter nonsense."

"Oh." Ron looked a little confused and a lot hurt, and so I wracked my mind for something to make him feel better. Not that I cared much, but I did have an hour to kill...

"…On the other hand, it was a good sort of nonsense, the kind that changes the world. So tell me, Ron...do you own a rifle?"


	6. Slightly Suggestive Handshake (Part 5)

I.

After Ron and I accidentally shot a centaur and set the greenhouses on fire during our little uprising, guns became a banned item at Hogwarts. Also, I was required to go around with a chaperone for the next two weeks, in order to "prevent further damage to the property, students, and professors of Hogwarts," according to Dumbledore.

I didn't care. I didn't care about doing anything except for that which would impress Hermione, and I quickly realized that causing explosions didn't fit the bill. And since I had a chaperone that forced me to attend my classes, I could no longer go to class with Hermione under the guise of loving Ron. Thus, I turned to the only thing that I had yet to try: the advice of my new friends.

"So you see, Potter, the easiest way to forge a strong relationship with someone is to have an incredible amount of money. That, and be really, _really_ good looking."

"Uh-huh...okay…"

"Being part of an influential family helps a lot, too, and if you can be born pureblood then you'll have a much better chance."

I wrote all of this down, and smiled at Draco. He had become frighteningly loyal ever since I started having breakfast with him, and he was turning into a great ally.

"Okay, Draco, thanks," I said. "One last question: if you could choose the perfect Christmas gift for a girl, what would it be?"

Draco thought it over. "Father always says that a box of chocolates can never go amiss," he said eventually. "That, or a dead Mudblood."

I wrote down, _Candy and/or Dead Person_ , and turned to go. "I appreciate it, Draco. Really, I do."

"Always a pleasure to help the famous Harry Potter," he said. And he _meant_ it. Dear Lord, I was Harry Potter, the wizard—and the socialite!

* * *

II.

Over the next few weeks, I collected bits of wisdom, from the youngest students of Hogwarts to the oldest Professors. I asked them all sorts of questions about love: how to find it, how to get it, how to make it—though I of course avoided mentioning Hermione's name. I even asked Hermione herself, in order to avoid suspicion.

I tracked her down in the library one day after class. I saw her bushy haired head hunched over a stack of books, reading frantically. Then I took a deep breath to prepare myself.

My approach to her table was collected, if a bit jerky. When I reached her, I sat down in the seat opposite, and opened my mouth. Then I closed it. What was I going to ask her about, again? Frantically, I thought.

After a couple of hours, Hermione looked up. "...Harry?"

"Yes?"

Hermione closed her book. "What are you doing?"

I wracked my brain. "Isn't it obvious? I'm practicing my non-verbal magic. Honestly, I'm surprised you didn't realize, being the genius that you are and all."

"Non-verbal magic?" Hermione asked. She looked impressed. "Let's see it, then." She gestured to my wand.

I glowed with pride. That was my Hermione, always on the ball, always questioning things! Then I realized that she wanted me to actually do something, and I started to panic.

"Um. Um. Yes," I said. "I'll show you…" I thought a spell _really_ hard, and waved my wand, but nothing happened. At Hermione's raised eyebrows, I grew defensive. "I didn't say I was actually _good_ ," I snapped. "Honestly, if I could do it already, then what would be the point of practicing?"

She giggled, and I immediately felt like I was floating. I had made her laugh! What a magical moment.

After another minute of looking at her woozily, I remembered why I had come. I fumbled in my bags and brought out my scroll of questions, entitled 'How to Make Harry/Hermione Happen.' Of course, I didn't let her _see_ it. I angled the top away so that only the questions were visible.

I asked her the first question. "Please rate these...acts...on a scale of one to five, with five being the _most_ pleasurable, and one being the least..."

In retrospect, I probably should have started with something a little less dirty.

* * *

III.

Well, all difficulties aside, I was able to come up with a nice long list of love advice, which I boiled down into a plan. Using my careful calligraphic skills, I wrote it on a piece of parchment, and hung it up beside my bed (or Ron's, depending on how you thought about it). This enabled me to absorb it each moment before I went to sleep, and each moment after I had woken up.

 _Step Number One: Be Extremely Kind_

I had already been following this guideline, but just to be certain, I gave Hermione extra long waves and smiles when I passed her in the hallways. Ron told me that this was creepy. After listening to his criticism for several days, I told him that he was as clueless about love as he was about everything else.

("Hey there, Hermione!" I said, as she exited her Transfiguration lesson.

"Harry...hi." As usual, Hermione didn't look enthusiastic. But I knew how to work with that. I fell into step beside her.

"How's it going?"

"Fine." She sighed. "Harry, when are you going to stop coming up to me like this? Honestly, it's a little weird."

I looked deep into her eyes and pretended to look shocked, while imagining our lips touching. "What? Me? Weird?" I gasped. "I don't know where you _get_ these ideas, you little witch!"

Hermione sighed again. "Harry...don't you have somewhere else to be? Like, well, class?"

I chuckled, but in truth I was deeply moved by how much Hermione cared. "Yes, I most certainly do have class. However, my best friend Ron, here—" I scooped him out of the surrounding throng of people "—is making me skip. Isn't that the most manipulative thing you've ever heard? He's such a little bastard sometimes.")

 _Step Number Two: Be Extremely Good Looking_

As I once heard Dumbledore telling Professor Sprout, attractive wizards are born, not made. Fortunately, I had been blessed by the wizarding gods with incredible features. However, just to be sure, I spent an extra hour messing up my hair each morning, so that it had that perfect shaggy/sexy look. This was something that caused Seamus and Dean unending irritation, because I made him hold their breath while I worked. I tried to explain about how a stray gust of wind would have forced me to start all over, but they never really bought it.

("Bones, Susan."

"Here, Professor McGonagall!"

"Finch-Fletchley, Justin."

"Present."

"MacMillan, Ernie."

"Here!"

"Potter, Ha—Mr. Potter. As I told you yesterday, and _every_ day since the beginning of the month, you will either _remove_ that disgusting headdress you call hair, or you will wear a hat! Are we clear? I do not want to see that in my classroom each morning!")

 _Step Number Three: Wear a Turban_

This piece of advice had come from poor Professor Quirrell, the (turbaned) Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Each day in his classes, he stood awkwardly at the front of the class, stuttering about all of the things that he had done (defeating vampires, eating fried werewolves) during his travels. At first, I had believed that the man was a braggart with no real skills, and any love advice that he gave me would be based on little to no experience. But when, at my request, he began to tell us about all of the women he had dated—and trust me, it was a _long_ list—I started to come round.

("And t-t-that was when—the v-v-vampire came f-f-forwards and touched me right h-h- _here_ —"

I lounged low in my seat, watching Quirrell do one of his daily performances. My feet were up on the desk in front of me, and my notebook was held tightly in my hand. I listened with rapt attention.

"She s-s-said, 'Q-Q-Quirinus, you sly d-d-dog. W-w-why can't we—?'" Quirrell made a strange hand gesture. Then he looked out over the crowd. "Any q-q-questions?"

Ernie MacMillan, who was sitting behind me, spoke. "Professor Quirrell," he said. "Are the anatomical diagrams going to be on our exam? Because Harry Potter's head is making it _really_ hard to see…"

I turned around lightning quick. "Excuse me?" I snapped at Ernie. "If you're having trouble seeing the board, then maybe you should sit up front!"

"...Harry, I can't. Your turban is literally taking up the first two rows.")

 _Step Number Four: Be A Hero_

I had decided on this one before all the others, but put it last on the list because of its difficulty. All of the books indicated that the hero gets the girl—and so it seemed incredibly clear to me that I should follow in their footsteps. However, as I found out, becoming a hero is _hard_. I was hoping that being Harry Potter, and all of the "saving the Wizarding World from mass destruction" press that came with it, might do the trick, but apparently it wasn't enough. Three months into the school year, and still Hermione hadn't shown me any signs of love…

I resolved to become a hero at the earliest opportunity.

IV.

Halloween dinner at Hogwarts was a subdued affair. The Great Hall was lit by even more candles than normal; bats flitted across the starry ceiling; food was piled up on the table, several dishes high.

I had taken to eating dinner at the Gryffindor table, despite McGonagall's protests, and was currently wedged between Seamus Finnegan and Ron. Seamus was telling us some long, rambling story about a baby dosed with love potion, but I was hardly listening; I kept glancing down the table to where Hermione's normal place sat empty.

"Then me mam, you know, she goes right up to me dad and, and she says to 'im…"

Ron was laughing uproariously and pounding the table. Seamus was flat on his back with laughter.

Eventually, I couldn't take it any longer. "Ron—hey, Ron?" I tapped my friend on the shoulder.

"Harry?" Ron wiped away tears. "What is it?"

I lowered my voice. "Have you seen Hermione today?"

"Um…" Ron suddenly looked guilty. "I think—I think she might be in the bathroom, crying. I kind've made fun of her after Transfiguration, I didn't mean for her to hear, but she did…she's always being this 'know-it-all' and it gets irritating...you know?"

At his words, anger exploded in the pit of my stomach. How could he—what kind of jerk would do that—to Hermione? "No, Ron, I don't know."

"I'm sorry, Harry, I'm sorry!" Ron cried, seeing something deadly in my eyes. "I really am, I swear!"

"Yeah, well, sorry doesn't cut it." I started to pull my wand out of my pocket. I was planning on using a Bladder-Binding Hex on him, which Snape had mentioned in Potions, but before I could, there was a scream.

I looked to the front of the Great Hall, where Professor Quirrell, panting and covered in blood, had just appeared.

"Troll!" he cried. "In the dungeons! Though you ought to know." Then he keeled over.

After a few minutes of yelling and screaming (in which I took part), Dumbledore restored order with a few blasts of fire from his wand. "Prefects!" he ordered. "Please gather up the students, and take them back to your common rooms!"

As the teachers paraded out to look for the troll, as a red-haired Gryffindor prefect was attempting to round up his House, I was struck by a sudden idea.

"Ron!" I hissed, my anger at him completely forgotten. "Hermione doesn't know about the troll!"

Ron bit his lip. "You reckon we should warn her?"

I laughed at this. "No, you idiot," I said. "I reckon we should _save_ her!"

* * *

V.

Ron and I crept around the corner, eyes peeled. In my right hand, I held my wand. In my left, a large biscuit.

"Can we go over the plan again, please, Harry?" asked Ron. Sweat was coating his forehead.

I shook my head. "Sorry, Ron, there's no time. But you'll figure it out—" I patted him on the head with the biscuit "—probably." Then, at the sound of Hermione screaming, I stepped forward. "Let's go."

"Harry, wait!"

But I was already dashing past, biscuit held aloft, and the thought of saving Hermione giving me strength. _Just imagine how she'll think of you when you show up just in the nick of time and slay the troll_ …

I raced towards the sound of the screams. Then I turned another corner, and beheld a terrifying sight.

When Quirrell had said that there was a troll...well, he hadn't mentioned that it would be fifteen feet tall and carrying an iron studded club.

I stopped and stared and trembled. My mouth opened in a silent scream. Then I took several large steps back, until I could no longer see the troll. Once there, I collapsed to the ground, taking deep breaths.

By this point, Ron had caught up with me. "Harry, _what are you doing_?" he bellowed.

My mouth could hardly form words. "Gluh-bluh-bluh…"

"Give me the biscuit!"

"Gluh-bluh-gluh…"

Seeing that I was unable to act, Ron grabbed the food from my hand and darted around the corner. "Oy, pea brain!" I heard him yell. "Get a load of this!" There was the distinct sound of the biscuit hitting the troll—and then the sound of the redhead's rapid retreat.

Ron appeared, rushing around the corner like all hell was behind him. "Harry!" he screamed. "The biscuit didn't work! _Do something!_ "

"I—I—" But I had finally gained the ability to speak, and the trembling of my knees had calmed. Slowly, I rose to my feet. "Get in front of me!"

"What?"

I cuffed him across the face. "No time to explain, just do it!"

Ron moved forwards, and I peered over his shoulder. "Wait for it…" I muttered.

"Wait for—?" But his voice cut off abruptly as, grunting and staggering, the troll rounded the corner.

Fifteen feet of rock hard flesh peered around blearily. Then it raised its club.

"Charge!" I yelled, pushing Ron forwards into the path of the troll. I didn't stop to see what happened to him, but instead dashed to the side, keeping a club's length away from the giant hunk of meat. I skirted around the corner, zipped forward—and pretty soon I had the troll at my back and the girl's bathroom before me. I ran inside, where I found a sobbing Hermione lying in the corner.

I crouched down beside her. "Hermione, are you okay?" I asked.

She dried her tears and nodded. At my request, she rose to her feet, only to fall back down again, her knees were trembling so hard. Poor thing.

"Is it—is it gone?" she asked.

"Not quite. However—" I puffed out my chest "—I managed to injure it badly enough for even someone as incompetent as Ron to finish it off." A roar came from the hall, followed by Ron's shriek. "You see? The troll probably just died."

The troll roared again.

"Don't worry, Hermione. I know that Ron doesn't have the skills that I do, but honestly, who does? He'll be fine."

More roaring.

"And I know that he's not as good looking, or as muscular, but surely even he can handle a dying troll."

"Um, Harry?"

"Hermione, wha—" I broke off. Was it just me, or were the roars getting louder? I turned around, to find the full grown mountain troll standing behind me.

"Eep," I said.

The troll's muscles rippled as it brought the club high, nearly scraping the ceiling—

* * *

VI.

"Oh…" I moaned. "Oh…I'm _dying_ …"

"Harry!"

"I'm dying, I'm dying! Oh…"

"Harry, stop it! You're not dying."

When my head stopped spinning and my vision focused, I found myself lying in a comfortable bed, surrounded by sterile white walls. Hermione and Ron were sitting by my side, looking worried.

I coughed. "Where am I?"

"You're—you're in the hospital wing, Harry," said Hermione, eyes wide. "You've been out for a couple of hours, now...Professor Dumbledore was so worried…"

"What happened?"

Ron and Hermione shared a look. "Do you remember anything, mate?" Ron asked.

"Umm…" I searched my memory. "Biscuits?"

Ron laughed, but Hermione looked even more disconcerted.

"Relax, Hermione," I said. "I remember everything. Attacking the troll, saving you…" I grinned at her, and she smiled back. My stomach did a flip-flop. "But the end...well, it's a bit hazy."

"Well, after you ran away, I was fighting the troll." Ron explained. "Then it slammed me with its club." He pointed to his head, which was wrapped in bandages.

"Ouch." I winced in sympathy. But then I said what I knew was necessary, for his own good: "However, had you been a better wizard, you would have avoided that. I know I certainly would have."

Ron shrugged. "Whatever, mate. When I managed to get to the girl's bathroom, you and Hermione were facing down the troll. Then it raised its club, and you—"

"What? Did something extremely heroic?" I grinned. "Did I, you know, shout something noble before taking the club for Hermione?"

Ron shook his head. "No, Harry. You fainted. I guess you hit your head on the floor or something, because we couldn't wake you up, and the troll was about to smash us—that's when Dumbledore and Snape and McGonagall appeared. Well, they got rid of the troll pretty quickly—waved their wands, and it just vanished. But you were just lying there…"

Hermione nodded. "It was awful," she said. I realized I could see the marks where she had gripped her cheeks in fear. "We thought—maybe you weren't going to wake up—" She cut off, and just looked at me, face white.

At this, despite everything I had gone through, I felt a sort of buoyant feeling suddenly sweep through me, and my body jerked away from the bed in excitement. Because as I lay in that hospital wing, surrounded by magic and light and the warmth of Ron and Hermione, I realized something. Something I hadn't considered before, in all my plotting…

I had thought that things had to be quick, that Hermione and I had to be together immediately, and that anything less was failure. I had tried to charm her, to make her swoon, get her to fall into my open arms. But maybe, just maybe, I could try to take things slow…A smile spread across my face. My heart sped up.

Ron and Hermione were looking at me with alarm. "Harry, are you…?" Hermione trailed off as I raised a hand.

"Hermione," I said slowly, tremulously, "I know that I haven't been the most _normal_ person lately...and I'm sorry, I really didn't mean to bother you like that. But—do you think—maybe we could start—umm—" I swallowed. "That is...I mean to say...Do you want to be friends?"

Hermione's answering smile was as bright as the sunrise, and I had to fight to keep my heart in my chest, that's how hard it was beating.


	7. Slightly Suggestive Handshake (Part 6)

Over the coming weeks, Ron, Hermione, and I slipped into a pleasant routine. We would wake up in the mornings, get ready in the Gryffindor common room together, and then go down to breakfast. There, we would talk and laugh, thinking about the coming day. Thinking about the exploits of the past night (which were invariably of a thrilling nature).

The time for class would come. Ron and Hermione would wave to me as we parted, and I would wave back, my heart giddy with joy. Each evening, we'd meet again in the Gryffindor common room. We'd relax in front of the fire, thinking of the coming weekend…

It was _almost_ how I imagined complete happiness to be. And with only one small thing missing, I sometimes found myself forgetting about my future plans for marriage, and instead found myself just living in the moment…

One evening in the Gryffindor common room, as I was finishing my Potions essay, Ron brought up a topic that jerked me out of one of my reveries.

"So, Harry," he said. "Have you considered trying out for the Quidditch team?"

"What?"

"Well, you know, I don't think you could play as a Gryffindor, though you practically are one—but the Hufflepuff captain, Cedric Diggory, is holding tryouts this weekend...you could go out."

I thought about this. Quidditch had been one of the things that I had considered doing, back when I was actively plotting to get with Hermione—it seemed like one of the best ways to distinguish myself. To become a superstar. However, lately I hadn't been thinking that way, and it had slipped from my mind…but still...there would come a future time when I would want to start moving in that direction again, and surely this would help my reputation…

"Yeah," I said, warming to the idea. "Maybe I will…"

"Oh, no, Harry!" Hermione said quickly. "Quidditch is dangerous. I read in _Hogwarts: A History_ that several players have died."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Hermione, Quidditch isn't that bad. Honestly, what could even happen? Aside from being hit by a bludger, or falling a thousand feet from a broom, or getting your head mistaken for the quaffle and thrown into a goal hoop...there's really no danger at all."

All through Ron's list, Hermione had grown greener and greener. She looked at me. "You don't really want to do it, right Harry? There are so many other things you could do. Like wizard chess club…or wizard Pokemon..."

"Harry doesn't even like chess," said Ron, laughing. "And he's not interested in card games, he wants _glory_! And Quidditch is how you get that. Am I right, mate?"

I nodded uncertainly. I _did_ want glory, it was...well... _glory_. And while I was Harry Potter, that wasn't enough…was it? "Do you really think it's that bad, Hermione?" I asked. "I mean, the teachers are watching, it's not like anything _awful_ could happen. Even the stuff Ron mentioned wouldn't kill a person…"

"Yeah, just injure them severely," Hermione muttered.

"Come on, Hermione!" Ron said. "Harry's going to be fine! Anyways, I heard that his father was a great player himself. It's in his blood. And Harry's already taken flying lessons…"

At my wince, Ron raised his eyebrows. "Haven't you?"

"Well, I...flying class is at the same time as Gryffindor History of Magic...and since Professor Binns doesn't care which section I go to...erm…"

Ron sighed. "Well, that would've helped. But still, mate, your father _was_ a great player. And I bet that Dumbledore'll let you break the rules against first years owning brooms, with you being Harry Potter and all…"

Hermione just huffed into her homework, looking irritated. "Well, I just hope that Harry knows what he's getting into," she said.

I hoped the same.

* * *

Morning on the day of the Quidditch trials dawned bright and early. I woke up beside Ron and, unable to go back to sleep, I watched the sunrise.

At breakfast, I felt the butterflies begin in my stomach. By the time Cedric Diggory got up from the Hufflepuff table and motioned for any prospective players to follow, my bladder felt like it was the size of an eggcup.

"You'll be great, Harry!" said Ron, as I stood.

Hermione's face was somber. "Good luck," she said.

I snorted, because I believe that acting confident inspires true confidence. "I don't need luck," I said. "I just need—" my bladder shrank even more "—to go to the bathroom. I guess I'll just nip in on the way to the pitch…"

Once in the changing room, I pulled on some spare robes, and sized up the competition. There was a fair turnout—at least several dozen hopefuls had shown up, including a couple of people I recognized from a poster depicting last year's team.

Cedric came over to me. "Harry Potter," he said, grinning. "Good to have you here. Planning to make your old man proud, eh?"

I nodded. "I most certainly am, Cedric. Why, I bet I'll be even better than he ever was. I bet I'll be so incredibly good that I'll make the opposing Beaters faint. I'll make the Chasers plummet out of the sky. I'll make the Seeker go blind!"

"That's the spirit!" Cedric thumped me on the chest. "I'll see you on the pitch."

After he had left, I looked at my narrow broom, and thought about throwing up. I'd be thousands of feet in the air...with nothing to support me if I fell. Why had I done this again?

Glory, I reminded myself. Think of the _glory_ …

Out on the pitch, things were bright and my legs were unsteady. However, I tried to stand straight and tall. I gripped my broom tightly in one hand.

"Now, Potter," Cedric told me. "I'm going to let the balls go, to simulate game conditions. Then we're going to do a couple of laps around the field. Nothing fancy, no need to go wild...it's just to warm up, and make sure that everyone is capable of basic flight. Though I'm sure that won't be a problem for you." He winked. He turned to the large broom-carrying crowd that had gathered. "Everyone ready? Set?"

I closed my eyes tightly, gripped my broom with both hands…

Cedric blew his whistle.

I jerked my hands upward. Immediately, I felt a rushing all around me...the wind caressing my face...the warm sun at my back...

After a few moments, excitement started to flood through my body. This wasn't so bad...in fact, this was easy, this was simple, this was _wonderful_! I whooped, and finally opened my eyes—

Only to find that I was still standing firmly on the ground. The broom was clutched tightly between my hands, off to the side of my body. I had forgotten to mount it.

Several people flying around the pitch had stopped in midair, and were laughing, pointing at me. I felt my face burn. "Shut your mouths, dipsticks!" I yelled. "I bet even _you_ couldn't have defeated Voldemort as a baby!" But they kept at it, not bothering to hide their glee.

I felt rage well in the pit of my stomach. If those little bastards weren't going to stop, then I was going to _make them_ —

Without conscious thought, my wand was in my hand, and words leapt, unbidden, to my lips: " _Petrificus totalus_!" And then— " _Incendio_ —"

* * *

After Cedric Diggory had finished putting the fires out and sending several ashen faced players to the hospital wing, he rounded on me.

"Potter!" he snapped, his earlier niceness having vanished. "What the hell was that?"

I tried to think of some excuse, and came up with nothing. So I put on a guilty expression. "I'm really sorry, Cedric," I said. "They were laughing, and I just—lost control—"

"Yeah?" Cedric said. "Do you _lose control_ often, Potter?"

"Umm...no?"

Cedric squinted at me. Finally, he said, "It had better not happen again. Or you're out of tryouts and permanently banned from the team, no questions asked. Do you understand?"

I nodded, still keeping on my guilty face.

Someone—I thought he was called Wallenby—came over and tapped Cedric on the shoulder. "Diggory? Have a look at this." Wallenby held out the Snitch, which had stopped fluttering, and was sitting, lifeless, in his palm.

"Huh." Cedric looked at the now-unmoving golden ball. "And this happened...how?"

"Well, we think that Potter, when he went all—um—"

"Brilliant?" I suggested.

"Yes, that. He hit it with his Petrifying Curse…"

"Huh," Cedric said again. He brought out his wand and cast the countercurse, but nothing happened. "I guess we can play without it for now, and ask Madam Hooch before the next practice…"

"Sure thing, Diggory." Wallenby mounted his broom and flew off. I watched, trying to hide the jealousy that I felt. If only I could fly like _that_ …

Diggory put his hand on my shoulder, face softening. "Even if you don't have it in you today, Harry, there's always next year…"

I slowly raised my eyes to his, giving him a glare as cold as ice. "You think I don't have it in me?" I coughed up some phlegm, and spit it into the ground, like I'd seen some sports players do on TV. "Well then, watch _this_."

* * *

The Gryffindor common room that night was filled with the warmth of celebration—or at least, the small corner that Ron, Hermione, and I occupied was. I held up my butterbeer joyously. Ron and Hermione followed suit.

"To me!" I said. "The new Hufflepuff Seeker!"

"To Harry!"

"To my great flying!"

"To his great flying!"

"May he win a million games and not die!"

We clinked glasses, and drank deeply. Or at least, Ron and I did. Hermione simply watched disapprovingly.

Some time later Ron and I emerged, a little bit giddy and very drunk.

"What was it like, Harry? What was it like?" Ron slurred, trying to wipe his upper lip and missing entirely. "When you got it...when you snatched the Snitch out from under the other players' noses? What did Diggory say?"

"Hah!" I said, smiling. "He said...he said…" Suddenly I remembered, and my smile dimmed. "Actually," I said, "Diggory wasn't...he wasn't thrilled…" Dammit. Why couldn't I have forgotten?

Unfortunately, the memories were flooding back, and even in my drunken state, I couldn't stop them from coming…

Despite my best efforts, I hadn't actually managed to get off the ground before the end of the tryouts. Oh, I mounted the broom—did I ever mount it!—but I kept coming back to the simple fact that _I was a wingless land animal, meant for the ground._ My mind just couldn't handle the idea of going so high up into the air. Sitting on such a thin stick of wood…

However, only two other people had shown up to audition for the Seeker position. One of them was a fourth year girl named Virginia; the other was Cedric (normally the Captain's position would not require an audition, but Hufflepuffs were very into fairness). After my little outburst, Virginia left, saying something about being too busy for Quidditch. And Cedric, upon making the final position decisions, eyed my wand and determined expression. Then he muttered that he would be playing Keeper this year.

Thank goodness that I wasn't in the House of the Brave. Otherwise I would've had another fire on my hands, one that I might not have been able to explain away so easily…

I turned my thoughts away from the Quidditch pitch, and back to Ron, not wanting to let him down. "Cedric said to me… 'Harry...you're going to become...the greatest Seeker...this world has ever seen…'"

"Yeah!" Ron punched at the air, and, drunk as he was, he accidentally made contact with Hermione's nose. "Oh...Herm-Hermione, sorry…"

But from amid a cloud of blood, she smiled at me. "I'm really glad you got in, Harry. Ron and I'll come watch every game…" Then, slightly more quietly, "Even if I do think it's a stupidly dangerous sport."

I smiled back. "Thanks...Hermione. That means—it means a lot."


	8. Slightly Suggestive Handshake (Part 7)

Despite the approaching first game of the season, I didn't have much time to dwell on Quidditch over the next few weeks. For one, homework was starting to pile up, leaving me with little time for anything except for essay writing and wand practice. For another, Christmas was approaching, and I was spending most of my free time, and a lot of my classes, thinking about what I should get Hermione. Nothing too big, because I didn't want to scare her off, but it I knew that it couldn't be something trivial, either, like sweets. It had to _mean_ something…

It was during one of these brainstorming sessions, while I sat in Defense Against the Dark Arts, that I was jerked rudely out of my thoughts by way of something poking me hard in the back.

I looked around to find Ernie MacMillan, finger extended.

"What?" I snarled.

He scowled at me. Ever since rumors regarding my disastrous Quidditch tryout had spread, Hufflepuffs had been treating me with something close to disdain. I was able to stand it only by holding a certain piece of knowledge close to my chest: that I would prove them all wrong in our first game of the season. Assuming, of course, that I managed to get off the ground (a feat that I had only accomplished once during practice, and even then I had been airborne for fewer than ten seconds before crashing back to earth).

"Professor Quirrell," Ernie said, "has been repeating your name for the past five minutes."

I turned to the front, where Quirrell was staring at me and trembling. "I'm very sorry, Professor," I said sweetly. "I was distracted. You know, with Christmas coming...and Quidditch…"

"O-of c-c-course," said Quirrell, eye twitching. "I was j-j-just wondering if y-y-you might come t-t-to my office a-a-after class, Mr. Potter."

I looked at him uncertainly. "Have I done something wrong?" I was pretty sure I hadn't, assuming that my campaign to force him to temporarily remove his turban hadn't come to his attention. (It wasn't that I had an issue with turbans, per se, I was just worried that he might have been carrying some illegal potions under the wrap).

"Oh, n-no, Mr. Potter." He laughed timidly. "I j-just have a l-l-little extra credit e-e-exercise I think you might l-like…"

A few minutes later, I found myself in Professor Quirrell's office, sitting before his wide and impressive desk. Slowly, he lowered himself into a cushioned chair, before straightening and giving me a smile.

"Mr. Potter," he said, "I'm not sure we've ever been properly introduced. I am Quirinus Quirrell."

My mouth dropped in shock. Where had his stutter gone? Had it been a fake—this whole time? "Y-your stutter!" I said, stuttering a bit myself. "I-it's gone!"

"Well, of course it is," Quirrell said smoothly. "It was just a front. You didn't think that I actually had a speech impediment, did you? Merlin, they said you were smart."

"Um…"

Professor Quirrell waved a hand. "Regardless, I wanted to talk to you, Potter. I have a proposition that I think you'll like." He waited a moment, then said, "Are you familiar with an object called the Sorcerer's Stone?"

"The Sorcerer's Stones?" I thought this over. "I think," I said slowly, "that my Uncle Vernon has an adult film with that title. Though it's Ron's now, I guess…" I looked at him. "Are you interested in watching it? Because I bet Ron would be willing to let you borrow it, maybe even for free."

"What? No!" Quirrell hissed. "The Sorcerer's _Stone_ , boy, _Stone_. Singular."

I paused. "Oh. No, I don't believe I know what that is."

He looked at me, and a slow smile spread across his face. "Well, then, listen _carefully_ …"

* * *

"Let me get this straight," I said to Quirrell, some time later. "The Sorcerer's Stone is an object that gives a person eternal life? _And_ it makes them incredibly rich?"

Quirrell nodded smugly. "Nicholas Flamel, its creator, was quite the alchemist. I doubt that any who came before or after him could have accomplished such a feat, except for possibly Lord Voldemort—"

"And except for me." At Quirrell's questioning look, I said, "I did defeat Voldemort as a baby, you know."

"Ah...yes." Quirrell looked like he was struggling to keep his fists on his desk, but I had no idea why. Wasn't Voldemort universally considered to be a bad guy?

"Anyways," I continued, "You think that you know where the Stone is hidden. And you want me to help you find it?"

Quirrell nodded again. "You've understood well, Mr. Potter. I believe that the Stone is one of Hogwarts' last mysteries, hidden long ago beneath the recently forbidden third-floor corridor, so that only a worthy soul is able to obtain it. That worthy soul is _me_." He paused, eyes glinting red. "And you, of course. Remember, if you and I are able to procure the Stone together...well, I am willing to split it with you, fifty-fifty. You'll live forever and become incredibly rich. And _I_ …" He stared off into the distance, possibly imagining all of the women he could date if he never died. I'm not entirely sure, because my mind, always practiced when it came to daydreaming, was having another dream of its own…

I saw myself holding up the Sorcerer's Stone (which I imagined to be a large yellow beach ball), and presenting it to Hermione...I saw her smile as I told her how we could grow old together forever...in a mansion the size of a small country...with Ron as our butler...I imagined myself wearing suits made of dragon skin, and having stimulating intellectual discussions with Dumbledore in the parlor as we smoked pipes...

It sounded like a fantastic deal. I just had one question. "Why me?"

"What?"

"Well, you could ask any student to help you find the Stone. Why would you be interested in asking _me_?"

Quirrell looked at me for a moment. Then he smiled. "I'd have thought that would be obvious, boy," he said. "You've already said it yourself...you _are_ Harry Potter. You did defeat Lord Voldemort, greatest, most powerful, and most handsome of all wizards, in single combat." He gagged at this last part. "I have already explored the outer defenses at Halloween; remember the troll?"

"That was you? I was nearly killed—and Hermione—"

"Sometimes people do get sacrificed for the greater good, Potter. That is simply the way of the world...As I was saying. I have explored the outer defenses; now I simply need someone to conduct reconnaissance on the inner ones. To go with me, and help me through the final Trials…" He looked at me sharply. "Are you any good at chess, boy?"

I nodded smugly. "I'm the greatest chess player that ever lived." Then I paused. "Though...I did lose to Ron, once. Or twice. But it was a fluke, because he was almost certainly cheating."

"I'm sure he was." Quirrell was looking happier and happier by the second. Then he considered me, and slowly put out his hand for a shake. "If you take my hand, boy, then we will become allies. I will contact you with further information in due time. However, you must swear that you will not speak of this to _anyone_...because the information could bring them _serious_ harm." A darkness fell across his face, but an instant later it was gone, and I thought that maybe I'd imagined it.

"Are you with me, Potter?"

I pretended to scrutinize his hand while I thought. I did really want everlasting life...and being rich seemed useful as well...especially if the whole Quidditch thing didn't work out.

"Fine," I said. I looked into Quirrell's eyes. "But no double-crossing, okay? If I shake, we're splitting it fifty-fifty, no exceptions?"

"That's right, boy." I reached for his hand. "You truly are a wise child, Potter," he said. And then, as our hands touched, "MOTHER FU—"

* * *

During dinner, Hermione looked at me worriedly. "What's wrong, Harry?" she asked, ladling stew onto my plate. "You keep touching your head, and you've hardly eaten anything…"

I couldn't tell her about the Stone, Quirrell had made me promise, but _oh_ how I _wanted_ to...I settled for a partial truth. "My scar keeps hurting. It's been hurting on and off all day, ever since I shook Professor Quirrell's hand."

"What?" Hermione considered me. "Why did you do that?"

You promised, you _promised_ …or Hermione might come to a _bad end_ …"Well, he stuck his hand out...and he said, 'Shake.' So it would've been rude not to, right?"

"Umm…"

"Hermione, Harry's right," piped up Ron, who had been busy inhaling burritos while we talked. "If a person puts out his hand, you can't just _ignore_ it…especially if that person is a teacher."

We all looked up to the Head Table, where the Professors were dining. Quirrell was sitting off to the side, his right hand wrapped in bandages up to the elbow.

At Hermione's raised eyebrows, I said, "I guess I have a really firm grip." She didn't look convinced, and so I sighed. "Hermione, it's fine. Quirrell's a teacher, this can't mean anything bad. He was hired by Dumbledore, right?"

Hermione reluctantly nodded.

I smiled at her. "Let's focus on something a little more pressing...like—" My stomach did a backflip "—I've got my first Quidditch game of the season next weekend…"

Ron nodded, looking excited. "Ravenclaw versus Hufflepuff!" he said. "It's gonna be great. We'll be in the front row, Harry, to watch you win!"

I grinned at Ron, and said, "Damn right!" But inside, I was—I'm not going to lie—a little bit worried. I still hadn't really managed fully fledged _flight_ during practice...though I had accidentally petrified a few more Snitches, and Cedric hadn't yet figured out how to fix them.

Hermione looked between the two of us, Ron looking jubilant, and I looking—maybe a bit queasy. Her gaze became tender. "Harry's going to be fine," she said. "Remember, as Ron said, it's in your _blood_ …"


	9. Slightly Suggestive Handshake (Part 8)

"Okay, everyone, listen up!" said Cedric Diggory, raising a hand.

We were in the Hufflepuff changing rooms just before the match, and we all clustered around him. I could hear the distant roar of students, and was really regretting the single bite of toast I had eaten that morning.

"We," said Cedric, "are a great team. We've got two _unbeatable Beaters_." He patted Henley and Ronstadt on the back, and they grinned at him, brandishing their bats. "We've got three _superb Chasers_." He pointed to Frye, Walsh, and Felder, who cheered. "And we've got _me_!" he said, "a cracking Keeper!" He paused, thinking. "Anyone else?"

I raised a hand. "Me?"

"Oh. Oh, yes, sorry, Harry." He paused, amping up his blood for: "Plus, we've got Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, who defeated Lord Voldemort and petrified four Snitches to boot! And today, maybe he'll finally manage to get into the sky—and stay there! _Can I get a 'Hallelujah'_?"

The 'Hallelujah' that followed was lackluster, but I didn't care. I'd show them...I'd show them _all_ …

Together, we marched out to the Quidditch pitch. Together, we were confronted by thousands of screaming spectators. And together, we mounted our brooms…

The flight teacher, Madam Hooch, was refereeing. She released the balls, and the Snitch darted off. I tried to follow it with my eyes but it got lost in the shadows, and soon enough, Madam Hooch was counting down.

"Three! Two! One! GO TO!" she screamed, blew her whistle, and then _we were off_.

Lee Jordan, a Gryffindor third year, was commentating.

"There they go, there they go, and a really nice side that Diggory's put together for Hufflepuff this year—Ronstadt and Henley are a remarkable pair, I remember the performance they put on at last year's final—and the Chasers, while new, have been getting some impressive odds in the betting pool—yep, Walsh manages to snatch up the Quaffle, he darts down the field—but—oh—Ravenclaw chaser McCartney manages to take it from him—"

Meanwhile, I was doing what Cedric had suggested to me in our pre-game pep-talk.

"Look, Potter," he had said, coming up to me after the team meeting. "You're a good guy, mostly, and you're determined. But you are a _terrible_ flier. Really, one of the worst I've ever seen. So we're going to need to change the paradigm a bit. You catch my drift?"

"Umm...no?"

"What I mean," Cedric said, eyes glinting maniacally, "is that you're going to be doing things a bit differently than the rest of us players." Then he brought me into a large alcove off the changing rooms. "That," he said, pointing, "is your new broom."

"..."

"..."

"...It doesn't look like a broom."

He grinned at me. "No, it does not," he said. "But I checked the rulebooks, and there is a provision that allows for unique models, provided that the player in question does not plan to use them to sabotage other players, but only to use them to enhance his or her own flight. It's all a bit technical," he concluded, "but the important thing is that it's completely, utterly within the rules." Have I mentioned that Hufflepuffs are very focused on being fair? "So what do you say?"

I looked at my new 'broom,' my heart starting to beat fast. It looked...well, it looked sturdy. And flight ready. And secure. Maybe, just maybe, I could use it to _catch that damn Snitch_ …

* * *

On the Quidditch pitch, things were going well. It had taken me a minute to get used to my broom's balance, but once I had, I had managed to amp up the speed and take off into the sky. I felt the wind whoosh past my hair, and finally, _finally_ , I felt good…I started to look around for the Snitch.

Up until this point, the spectators had been focused on the mid-air action. They hadn't bothered to watch me as I struggled to get my new broom working. But now that I had—well, suddenly people were pointing at me from all directions. A low mutter filled the stadium.

"And that's Harrison with the Quaffle, Harrison coming forwards—and Diggory, in his first test as Keeper for Hufflepuff—he—he—HE SAVES IT—and then it's back to Felder—to Walsh—Frye—Felder—and—WHAT THE HELL IS POTTER RIDING?"

Apparently, Lee Jordan had noticed. I smirked at the crowd and waved from my position high above them all, zooming through the sky.

"It looks like—a BIRD—no, wait—a PLANE—no wait—"

But his second guess was right.

Cedric Diggory had managed to procure from somewhere, and I didn't ask because I didn't want to know, a little one seater plane. It was the kind you often saw in cartoons, with no top; at the front sat a dinky little propeller. Somehow he had also managed to charm it to fly, because of course I wasn't going to make it work the _normal_ way...

In honor of my first game, Cedric had gotten some Hufflepuff to paint the whole machine yellow, and the tail depicted a large badger eating an eagle—to strike fear into the heart of the enemy, he had told me.

Now, as I gripped the joystick, spinning in circles, cartwheeling through the air, I knew that I had come home.

Lee Jordan was still talking about my broom. "I don't believe it! In all my years as a Quidditch commentator, I've never seen anything quite like—I mean, seriously, is that even legal?"

"Yes, it most certainly is, Jordan!" yelled Diggory from over by the goalposts. "Check Quidditch Regulation 479.5 if you don't believe me! I even had the Quidditch quality control board look at the designs..."

They dueled verbally for a bit, with the Ravenclaw captain piping up now and then on the side of Lee Jordan, but mostly I just flew around looking awesome, admiring how everyone looked like tiny little pinpricks from up here...

The game continued.

Ravenclaw had managed to score a couple of goals while Cedric and Jordan had been distracted by my 'broom.' Cedric shut up and got back to his goalposts. I circled through the sky, keeping an eye out for the Snitch.

Truly, I was untouchable up here, I thought to myself, grinning. Nobody could hit me...visibility was great...and the bludgers just bounce right off of the hull. It was like I was in a battering ram, invincible. I was Harry _freaking_ Potter, defeater of Dark Lords, Master of the Skies. I was—

Suddenly, I felt a lurch.

"What was that?"

I felt the lurch again. It felt like it had come from _beneath_ me...like I my body had been gripped by an invisible hand. _Adam Smith_? I thought, but as the lurch happened again, as I gripped the sides of the cockpit to no avail, I realized: my plane was moving, and it was _trying to throw me out of it_.

Well, anybody reasonable would have—not panicked, exactly—but gotten a little worried. I was a thousand feet off the ground. And my flying machine, which was suddenly feeling _way less secure than it had seconds before_ , had decided that I didn't belong in it. I needed to call for help.

"911! 911!" I screamed, as my plane continued to lurch beneath me. "MAYDAY! 911! MAYDAY!"

At this point, people had started to notice, and some of them were pointing. "It looks like Potter's broom doesn't like the feel of him in it!" Lee Jordan was yelling. "No, not at all, and it certainly isn't looking good for the Hufflepuff Seeker—"

Cedric had zoomed towards me. Every time he tried to move closer, my plane bucked in the other direction—but now he was putting out his arms, gesturing for me to jump.

"Like hell!" I yelled. "I think I'll stay in the plane, thanks!"

"Come on, Potter!" he called back. "You can do it, I'll catch you, I swear!"

But I shook my head firmly. I knew that he'd probably miss, and the empty air and I _did not mix_...

Madam Hooch flew over, followed by Professor McGonagall (who had wrested a broom from a student as they zoomed by). The two teachers squinted at my plane, and Madam Hooch gave some professional commentary. "Well, I certainly haven't seen anything like this happen," she was saying. "There was an incident in the 1974 match between England and Bulgaria in which the Keeper's broom kept jerking him forwards, but despite claims of sabotage, later critics simply put it down to some nasty indigestion…"

McGonagall had taken out her wand, and was trying to conjure a floating mattress below me, but every time she completed the spell, the mattress would fall to the earth with a whooshing sound.

I kept screaming, "HELP! SOMEBODY DO SOMETHING!" but nobody was doing anything effective, and I felt like I was going to die, I had wanted glory but I was going to become a little pancake on the grass far below, remembered as Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived-Only-To-Die-On-The-Quidditch-Pitch...oh, no, _please…_

And then like that, like magic, the jerking stopped.

I quit screaming, and looked around.

For a second my plane was floating freely, and it was a beautiful moment. I soared among fluffy clouds, so close that I could reach out and touch them...

A sudden hush had descended on all the fans, and the other players, and the teachers...as my plane finished its arc through the sky, and then started falling _down_.

Apparently, whoever had managed to stop the plane's jerking had _also_ managed to stop the charms that kept it aloft...or maybe whatever had started the jerking had also broken the plane's flight charms…

I didn't have much time to consider this, because I was hurtling towards the ground. It was rushing up towards me, and I felt my eyes close, felt a scream well forth—

* * *

Hours later, or so it seemed, I opened my eyes.

I was lying on something soft, something unmoving...and surrounded by a dead silence.

I tried to move my fingers. They twitched.

I tried to move my toes. They wiggled.

I turned my head, and saw everyone, the fans, the teachers, the players, all staring at my plane, where it had burrowed nose first in the grass. Mercifully, it had missed the stands, but its yellow exterior was flecked with mud. Its propeller was broken, lying off to the side in several small pieces.

I had been thrown from the wreckage, and come to land directly in the center of the Quidditch pitch.

The silence remained.

I shifted my body on the ground, feeling mud beneath my legs. Spitting grass out of my mouth, I straightened my legs. And then...I _rose_.

Like Merlin himself, like the Messiah, like a superstar at a rock concert, I slowly pushed myself to my knees, then to my feet. From the crowd, there was another shivering second of silence. Then a low chanting could be heard…

" _Potter...Potter...POTTER...POTTER...POTTER!"_

Reveling in the attention, I tilted my head back, and stepped forwards. Feeling something hard beneath my foot, I looked down...only to find the Golden Snitch lying motionless on the grass below.

"Huh," I said. I didn't know if it had been left from one of my previous practices, during one of my many 'accidental Petrification' episodes, or if none of the Professors had managed to figure out how to resurrect a Petrified snitch; maybe we had been playing with one all along. I figured that I would just go with it.

I reached down and snatched the golden ball. Then, into the chanting, I thrust my fist and screamed, "I'VE GOT THE SNITCH! TAKE THAT, YOU BASTARD ASSES!"

The crowd only roared louder, and I felt like if I had hopped on a broomstick right then and there—despite my fear of flying, despite everything—I would have _soared_.

* * *

Hours later, as I sat in Hagrid's hut with Ron and Hermione, the post-match euphoria hadn't worn off. "And that was when," I said, "I executed a _triple-double-corkscrew_ combined with a _Wronski-muffler_ while I was _plummeting towards the ground_!"

"Yeah, Harry!" Ron yelled. "You were brilliant!"

"Thank you, Ron. I appreciate your praise." I turned to Hermione. "Do you have any praise to give?" I grinned, but she looked worried, as she had since first coming over at the end of the match. I had thought she was going to say something to me then, but that was when I had been swamped by spectators, been patted on the back, kissed...and then Hagrid had come up, asking if the three of us wanted to come for tea. I didn't know the man that well—I hadn't interacted with him since he had taken us across the Hogwarts lake before the Sorting—but he he did mention that he had known my dad…

"Harry," Hermione said to me now, "I want to talk about what happened during the game."

"Hermione, that's what we've been talking about for the _last four hours_. I mean, didn't you hear about my triple-double-corkscrew? Didn't you _see_ it? And what about my Babinski-backflip?"

"Yes, Harry, I _did_. I was there, remember? But something went on during that game, something more dangerous than anything you've talked about so far." She looked at me, eyes wide.

"What?"

"Harry, your broom _tried to throw you off_. That doesn't just happen out of nowhere, that takes some serious Dark Magic…"

I was shaking my head and laughing. "Come on, Hermione. The charms on my broom were just having problems. Or somebody was playing a joke…"

"Harry, please!" Hermione looked—well, she looked actually upset. "Take this seriously! I—Hagrid, tell Harry that what happened wasn't normal."

The giant man looked at me. "I reckon Hermione's righ'," he said. "I've never seen anythin' like tha' happen before. Brooms are meant ter stay up in the air, Harry, not buck like tha'. The power it would o' taken ter do tha'—well, it'd have ter be a powerful wizard to do such mischief. It's not so easy ter tamper with a—" Hagrid squinted at me "—what's yer broom called, again?"

"I'm not sure," I told him. "I think Cedric had it made special for me."

"Er...yeah. Well, I reckon it'd be hard ter tamper with _any_ broom…"

Ron now seemed a bit worried himself. "Actually, Harry, I think Hagrid and Hermione have a point. My brothers have been playing Quidditch forever, and I've never heard of this happening. I can ask them if you want, but I'm pretty sure."

I looked at my friends in frustration. "But if it wasn't the flying spells malfunctioning, then what was it? You think someone wants to attack me, the famous Harry Potter, who defeated Lord Voldemort?"

"Yes, Harry, I do."

"Well, then, _who_?"

"I'll tell you _who_ ," Hermione said. "Professor Quirrell!"

I recoiled. "What? Professor Quirrell? _No_! It can't be him."

"How do you know?"

"Because...because…" I couldn't well tell her that he and I had a deal. That surely he wouldn't want to kill me, at least until it was complete...so I just said, "Because he loves me! He loves me a lot, Hermione, he thinks I'm great because I defeated Voldemort." I laughed. "What makes you even think that he was involved?"

"Because, Harry, when your broom started trying to throw you off, I didn't know what to do, I was so afraid you were going to fall—" Hermione's voice cracked. "Anyways, I looked to the teacher's section, because I thought that maybe one of them could help. And I saw Professor Quirrell. He was chanting something, he was gripping the back of his turban really hard, and he was looking directly at you! Then he got hit with one of McGonagall's falling mattresses, and that's right when your broom stopped jerking. I know it was!" She looked frantic, and I patted her on the head.

"Hermione, calm down," I told her. "I'm fine, I'm okay, and so is Quirrell. He can't be bad, he just can't!"

"But _why_?"

"Look, Hermione, we shook hands, all right? And when you shake hands—it's—it's against the rules to kill someone you've shaken hands with! Haven't you read that before, in—in _Hogwarts: a History_ or something?"

"No, Harry, I haven't! And neither have you." She looked at me fiercely. "I think you're scared. You don't want to admit that someone might want to kill you, and so you're just trying to act like it's nothing. But it's not, Harry, and you could be in danger—you may think you're invincible, but you're _just a kid_ —"

I held up a hand at that. "I'm going to stop you right there, Hermione," I told her. "No, I'm not invincible, but everyone knows that I'm _pretty damn close_. The only one who could probably take me on is Dumbledore, and even with him it would be a tough call."

"But—"

"No 'buts'," I told her firmly. "Everything is going to be _fine_."


End file.
